Love is stronger than Death
by hobgoblin123
Summary: From bad to worse. Tarrant and Vryce try to stay alive in a world which is drowning in violence and religious madness. Humankind doesn't need the faeborn demons; it is quite apt at creating its own hell. Slash. More warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**Love is stronger than Death**

Disclaimer: I don't own either the Coldfire Trilogy or the Song of Songs (Song of Solomon), and no profit or harm is intended.

Many thanks to Blackdragonsghost for posting "Home Is Where The Heart is", because without her breaking a kind of unspoken Coldfire fanfiction taboo I might have never had the guts to post this, although I've been working at this story and its companion on and off for about eighteen months now. Unlike her and Damien and Gerald I'm a bloody coward, lol!

That introduction leads us to my warning: This story (and its sister story "And Death shall have no Dominion") contains almost every conceivable touchy topic from slash, violence, hints of child abuse and incest (nothing explicit), character death and torture by the hands of the bloody inquisition to two men cheating on the laws of procreation, so if you are offended, repulsed or scared of any of those topics you'd might better refrain from reading it. Please don't fly off the handle and keep matters civil: I've given a fair warning.

You might also want to know that it's a very long story (about fifty pages of a rough draft now, and it's not finished by a long way), so if you are just interested in reading short fanfiction it might not be worth starting. Slash aficionados should be okay with the first two chapters, which can be read on their own.

**"…_for love is stronger than death, passion fiercer than the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. Many waters cannot quench love,__ neither can floods drown it." (Song of Songs)_**

**Chapter One:**

The descent from Shaitan and Gerald's heart failure had been a nightmare. When Damien had completed the Healing and his companion was starting to breathe more normally he downright collapsed and barely managed to keep an eye on Gerald who'd already dozed off, as wrenchingly tired as himself. Fortunately the adept's colour had improved by now, the blue shade on his lips and eyelids having been replaced by a more normal hue, and the heartbeat was strong and steady. Relieved beyond words Damien finally gave in to utter exhaustion, cradled Tarrant in his arms in a purely instinctive, protective motion, pulled up a blanket over both of them and was lost to the world as well.

Hours later Damien woke with a start, a wave of pure, unadulterated terror washing over him that wasn't his own. Obviously they had slept past sunrise, and the first rays of sunlight were bathing the entrance of their shelter, seeking access to the shadowed recesses at the cave's back. To his utter amazement Gerald frantically tried to disentangle his body from his arms and the blankets, naked dread as apparent in his movements as in his terrified panting.

_Blinding sunlight, piercing like a thousand daggers, burning him to a pile of black ash; no place to hide, no shelter from the killing light and the abysses of hell waiting for him. Not again! DAMIEN!_

That desperate plead for help rang through Damien's mind like a bell, but for a moment he couldn't make head or tail of the situation while Gerald's panic drowning his own capacity for rational thinking in a sea of terror. Then realization struck: apparently yesterday his friend, in agony and barely conscious, hadn't fully grasped that he was human again, that from now on he would be able to walk in daylight like any other man instead of being damned to eternal night. No wonder that Tarrant was scared out of his wits, his analytic mind momentarily smothered by a wave of immediate, visceral fear.

By now Gerald had retreated to the far end of the cavern, crouching in a futile attempt to melt with the unyielding stone at his back, a glazed look of terror on his face. In a heartbeat Damien was at his side, kneeling beside his companion and pulling him into a tight embrace. Tarrant was shaking like a leaf and buried his head at Vryce's shoulder in a last desperate attempt to protect his face from the deadly kiss of the sun.

_It's alright, Gerald. Don't be afraid!_

Sending some soothing thoughts through the channel that apparently survived the adept's death on Shaitan the former priest just held tight and waited patiently for the first rays of sunlight to reach them.

_Gerald, do you trust me? Then give me your hand. Give me your bloody hand, please!_

For a long moment Gerald didn't move a limb, still frozen with horror, but at long last his death grip on Damien's shoulders relaxed a bit, and reluctantly he offered his right hand. Fingers entwined Damien guided it ever so slowly towards the sunbeams, until their joined hands were caressed by the clear, brilliant morning sun, not scorching and burning but a warm and glowing caress that drove away the last remnants of darkness.

Gerald gasped, eyes full of disbelief and wonder, and Damien's heart swelled with joy and gratefulness. God's quality had been mercy after all, and in his wisdom he had granted his prophet a second chance and the possibility of redemption. For quite a while Vryce had fervently prayed for that miracle against all odds, had hoped and tried to keep his faith, his mission to save the Hunter's soul becoming even more important to him than his quest to defy Calesta. To see Gerald Tarrant now, eyes closed in rapture and head tilted towards the light like a flower savouring the first rays of dawn after a chill night, was a sight of heart wrenching beauty and confirmation of God's amazing grace alike.

For all his religious fervour the down-to-earth warrior knight had never been a visionary, but for an instant which seemed to stretch into eternity he caught a glimpse, frozen in time, of the man Gerald Tarrant, the Neocount of Merentha, had once been prior to his fall into the clutches of evil. Still on his knees and basked in the clear morning light Tarrant looked very much the saint and not the sinner, looked like the Prophet again, the founder of his faith and figurehead of the Church, and Damien could easily picture him in white and gold, adorned with the collar of his order, leading the troops into battle.

Damien's heartfelt prayers mingled with the far away rumble of Shaitan and the soft hiss of Gerald's clothes as he bent forward, face buried in his hands and shoulders trembling.

Finally Gerald straightened and turned around to face his saviour, and Damien couldn't help but marvel at the change that had been wrought in that rite de passage of death and resurrection: the parts of the skin visible through the plaster of ash and dirt were still the colour of ivory, but with a rosy tint beneath it, telling of a renewed flow of human blood, not the black, icy torrent he'd tasted to complete their bond.

Despite the ugly scar the pale face remained breathtakingly beautiful, as it would very likely be in all of Tarrant's remaining years, the perfect proportions of the delicate bones overshadowing any lines that the poem of time might write. '_Behold, thou art fair, my love'._ .Hazily Damien remembered those ancient lines, brought to Erna by the colonists so many years ago. Then he realized the true meaning behind his involuntary musing, and his heart missed a beat.

Vryce swallowed, shaken to his very core. That wasn't, mustn't be possible... Appalled by the Hunter's cruelty it had taken him some time to acknowledge the change of his own feelings concerning Tarrant, hiding his grudging fondness of the human soul trapped inside the demonic, undead entity called the Hunter, behind gruff words and bickering. His brother in arms had become a friend, a wondrous miracle that must have been worked by the Lord himself, but the wave of powerful emotions surging through him had been neither just amicably nor brotherly, but very, very disturbing, indeed.

'_If you were my brother, I could kiss you whenever we meet, and no one would say I did wrong'_, Damien thought longingly while he couldn't take his eyes off Gerald, his heart hammering in his chest.

For the first time Damien spotted some fine lines around the crystal clear grey eyes which were shining in a face so dirty that Vryce instinctively reached for the least grimy of his shirttails and tried to wipe away the worst of the filth. With regard to the absence of water, their remaining meagre supply of the vital liquid reserved for keeping them going, the attempt was fruitless and served only to distribute the offending smudges somewhat evenly on Tarrant's bemused visage.

Maybe Damien would have stubbornly continued with his futile efforts a little bit longer, a perfect distraction from his unwelcome line of thoughts, but as fate had it two of his fingers lost their grip on his shirttail and settled on a high cheekbone instead, a daring resting place much too tempting for Damien's taste, and he found himself literally unable to move while the tattered piece of cloth fell from his shaking hand, completely forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**Love is stronger than Death**

Disclaimer: I still don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, the Song of Songs or Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. Bad luck, though...

Quotes: Song of Songs (Song of Solomon); apparently Damien's much too busy for reciting poetry, but he should have remembered that Gerald does have access to his mind...

Warnings: Slash; rated M for a reason, although I've never been fond of too many graphic details...

Author's note: Well, it's kind of common practise in fanfiction and 'real' books alike to present a couple's first sexual encounter as the perfect deal: everything's running smoothly, everybody miraculously knows what his/her partner wants ( having a mindlink isn't always helpful), and of course a simultaneous orgasm is obligatory... But we all know that life's not always that easy. So I indulged myself with writing a sex scene with a twist. But don't worry: I'm not so bitchy to spoil their fun completely...

And remember when I moved in you  
The holy dove was moving too  
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah... (Leonard Cohen)

**Chapter Two: **

Vryce's breath hitched, and his fingertips tingled while he relished the pure, human warmth of texture that had once felt like icy, unyielding marble. Now the adept's skin was soft and pleasant to the touch, so pleasant in fact that Vryce decided to explore that feeling a little bit more and started caressing Tarrant's ash-covered face ever so carefully, mapping it with his fingers and feasting on it with his eyes. _'This is my beloved, and this is my friend.'_

Gerald's eyes widened in surprise and closed then, letting the former priest do as he wished, and to his own amazement Damien's wishes were multiplying by the second. He had never felt like this concerning any other man, had never even kissed a man before, not mentioning the activities which stubbornly kept popping up in his mind right now, and Gerald's surprising passivity wasn't exactly helpful. Maybe Tarrant was still beside himself, maybe he didn't understand the implications of the situation, or maybe he was just contemplating how to do away with a molesting nuisance of an ex-priest in the most convenient way…

Damien's tumultous thoughts were abruptly stopped when a slender arm slipped around his waist and pulled him closer, gluing their bodies together, and long fingers buried themselves in his hair and pulled his head forward into a kiss. What had started as a light, almost chaste touch of lips soon enough turned into a hungry, devouring exploration of each other's mouths, and when Gerald started sucking at his tongue with a small sigh Damien's already severely impaired capacity of rational thinking drowned in a smothering wave of naked want.

Closer! Damien pulled blindly at the tattered rags which had once been Tarrant's fine clothes, completely oblivious to the sharp hiss of tearing silk. Panting he dragged Gerald to the ground with him, not caring a damn about the hard, cold stone, and attacked the adept's mouth again, almost brutally so, those feverish kisses drugging him more than any wine had ever done._'Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for thy love is stronger that wine'_. Determined hands were deftly pushing his own rags aside now, but although Damien had never thought that simply lying skin to skin could feel so good, so right, it still wasn't close enough.

Hovering over a half-naked Gerald he gently bit into the crook of the adept's neck, nibbling and sucking until Gerald's breath hitched and he pushed his hips upwards with a helpless moan of surrender. His mouth pressed to the pulse racing beneath the pale skin, beating a wild staccato against his tongue, Damien's mind blanked out, and he forced himself between Tarrant's legs in a frenzy of desire. He'd never had a man before, but it couldn't be that different from making love to a woman.

"Vryce, no. Wait."

From far, far away Gerald's voice penetrated the haze of his need, and with all his remaining resolve he willed his body to hold still for a few precious seconds, biting down on his lips until he tasted blood in a vain attempt to distract himself from the staggering craving to enter the adept without further ado and fuck both of them into oblivion. That fight was love's labour lost, though; he simply wasn't able to wait, not with Gerald's human scent of fresh sweat and musk flooding his nostrils and the evidence of his companion's arousal pressing into his abdomen.

"Gerald, please, let me… Oh, shit!"

A warm, moist mouth closed around his right nipple, and when Gerald's hand took hold of his painfully throbbing erection, stroked him once, twice, thrice with a wicked flick of his wrist that must have been inspired by the devil himself stars exploded behind Vryce's eyes, and he collapsed on top of Tarrant, completely oblivious to the world.

The individual atoms that had once formed the human being Damien Kilcannon Vryce were still floating blissfully amongst those innumerable celestial bodies that lit up Erna's night sky when a strangled voice cut into his reverie.

"Vryce, I'd be very much obliged if you could grant me some room to breathe."

Damien's soul was pulled down from its lofty realms and slammed back into his body with a jarring jolt, and, his awareness returning, the former priest silently called himself three times a fool and had to fight a mighty urge to kick himself. Dear God, what the hell had possessed him to pounce on Gerald like a mindless animal in heat, behaving worse than a teenager enjoying his first night? The first sexual encounter after centuries of celibacy should have been a pleasing experience for Gerald, a memory to cherish even if they were destined to walk separate roads in the days to come. Now very likely Tarrant would file that special occasion in the well-assorted library he called his brain under the heading 'the ill-fated day Damien Vryce tried to rape me.'

Groaning Damien rolled off Tarrant and buried his flushed face into his hands, cringing with embarrassment. "Dear God, Gerald, please forgive me. I'm a blundering old oaf."

"Just so, Vryce. That's exactly what I've been telling you for years now, haven't I? But rest assured", Tarrant added with a pleasant smile that made Damien's hairs stand on end, "if you'd truly tried to _rape_ me, as I can hear you lamenting at the back of my mind, you wouldn't have lived long enough to regret your sorry mistake."

The faint amusement in Gerald's voice somewhat attenuated the menacing words, and Damien dared a questioning sideward glance at his companion who looked utterly unruffled despite his dishevelled appearance and was just about dabbing gingerly at the sticky mess on his belly with Damien's abandoned shirt. Unbelievably the adept seemed to be inclined to taking his outrageous behaviour in his stride, but Damien still couldn't help but burning with shame and remorse.

"But it's never been like that", he blurted out miserably. "I'm not exactly a virgin, Gerald, as you very well know. I simply don't understand what's come over me!"

"But I do, Vryce, and the solution to the mystery is actually so simple that you can figure it out for yourself. If," Gerald added haughtily, "you forsake wallowing in guilt and get your brain cells going for a change.

Damien glowered at his companion and gnashed his teeth. Vulking Gerald Tarrant had gotten him off in a blink a few minutes ago, and now the insolent son of a bitch was criticising his intelligence! Evidently some things never changed, were as consistent as the sun and the stars, and Gerald raising his hackles with an ease born from long practice was one of them.

"Thanks for your concern, Gerald, but my brain cells are just fine. Or had been fine, until somebody I won't mention meddled with them. But I wouldn't mind if you deigned to share your brilliant insights with me."

"It's the channel, Vryce. When we completed the bond I told you it might survive even death, and we just received valid evidence for my theory, although I have to admit I hadn't anticipated its unexpected side effects. My own desire poured into you via the mindlink, fuelling your arousal until your untrained mind lost control. No harm done," Gerald added after a short pause for effect with a fleeting glance towards his abdomen, "and actually I still feel rather inspired."

It wasn't just the meaning of Gerald's words that made Damien's mouth go dry but the seductive lilt underlying the adept's calm voice, and when he jerked up his head with a start and hazel eyes were finally meeting grey ones the former priest was startled by the alluring invitation lurking in those sparkling depths. Apparently his rude assault had been forgiven, and being offered a precious second chance Damien silently vowed that this time he wouldn't muck it up like a bull in a china shop.

Without a further word he got up and collected their scattered clothes, using the dusty garments and the single blanket that had survived their suicidal trip to Mount Shaitan to create a small makeshift nest for them on the floor. Having finished his task Vryce unceremoniously flopped down and patted on the blanket. "Come here, Gerald. Let's see if we can find some adequate fuel for your _inspiration_."

For a moment Tarrant glowered at him, a flash of defiance passing over his features, but to Damien's relief he shrugged off his annoyance and stalked over to the warrior knight while his fingers nimbly unlaced his trousers. Although a mortal man now Tarrant still moved with the deadly grace of a predator closing in on his prey, and when he wormed out of his pants and reclined right beside him in one single, fluent motion Damien's heart skipped a beat.

In fact Damien had seen the Hunter without his accustomed layers of clothes once before, but Tarrant had been burned so badly after eight days of roasting in the fire that keeping the man alive and kicking, or whatever counted for alive in his undead state, had been his sole concern, and stumbling through underground passages with hordes of hungry demons at their heels while carrying a seemingly lifeless, charred body reeking of ash and burned flesh most certainly hadn't served to inspire any kind of sexual feelings.

This was different now, and making the best of this rare moment of relative peace and quiet Damien took his time to gaze at his companion who was sprawling at his side on their blanket, as naked as God had created him and seemingly utterly at ease. At the very least more at ease than Damien, who felt slightly intimidated after having regained the better part of his thinking capability in the wake of his climax. _'Who is he that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?' _

He had known for a long time that Tarrant the Terrible's familiar layers of silken robes were covering a lean, lithe body, and so he wasn't too surprised that he was able to trace each and every one of Gerald's ribs with his eyes, his fingers and, more daringly, with his lips, proceeding from the ribcage upwards to the protruding collar bones and the vulnerable throat with its thundering pulse and then southwards again, relishing the heat of a sun-drenched body that had been radiating the deadly cold of space for centuries.

'_The joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the word of the hands of a cunning workman. __Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth no liquor; thy belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.'_

"That's very flattering, Vryce", Gerald purred huskily, "but musing about _jewels_ there are other, quite attention deprived parts of my body waiting for your appreciation."

At that Damien laughed heartily, and a bit of the tension lifted off his shoulders. Gerald's hands were cradling his head now, languidly toying with his hair, and to Damien's amazement the slight tickle was overlaid by a distinct feeling of the adept's delight at touching him, and the notion of wiry hair under fingertips that weren't his own, followed by a staggering surge of arousal that invaded his self via their special bond, hitting him like a heat wave and causing his hands to move on their own account, gliding down the small of Gerald's long, slender back until the adept's buttocks were perfectly nestling into Damien's big, calloused hands.

_I can't even remember what it feels like... _

Gerald had buried his face at the crook of Damien's neck again, his breath warm and humid against Vryce's heated skin, and the warrior knight felt the muffled, self-deprecating chuckle that accompanied Tarrant's thought rather than actually hearing it, but the traces of sadness and apprehension in the adept's mental voice and the sudden tension in his shoulders told Damien enough to still his hands and glance sharply at his companion.

"If there's anything you want to get off your chest it's now or never, Gerald. No harm done, as you've already said a few minutes ago, and if you want to back out for whatever reasons I won't criticise your decision. You bloody well know that I will still be your friend, don't you?"

The sole reward for his compassionate question was a small nod that did not yield any valuable information, and after a short moment of hesitation Damien recklessly threw all caution to the wind and shattered the boundaries of his human self on purpose, actively stretching his mind and soul for the first time since they had created the bond until he connected with Tarrant

The whirlwind of feelings hidden behind the dispassionate façade, so utterly at odds with the adept's familiar, analytic self, almost made him rear back in shock while the full force of Gerald's suppressed emotions slammed into him like a thunderbolt. Confusion, longing, affection, lust, everything was laid bare before Damien's inner eye, but surprisingly fear was the most prominent of them all. Fear of making a fool of himself, of being betrayed once again, of becoming vulnerable by giving up at least some small measure of control.

Nevertheless one fact was clear as day: Holding Gerald in his arms Damien wouldn't have needed the mind link to confirm that the adept hadn't lost much of his '_inspiration'_ despite his misgivings. _At least one advantage of bedding a man_, Damien thought wryly, and he wasn't too baffled when a familiar, dry voice inside his head replied '_you might be in for some surprises, priest'._

In spite of himself Damien smiled and trailed a line of kisses from jaw line to temple. "Don't worry, Gerald. Just relax, and when we've brushed up your memories you can surprise me all day long, if you feel up to it."

"Then stop talking and touch me, Vryce!" the adept whispered, the normally smooth, light tenor husky with longing, and Damien pulled up his head and sealed his mouth with a kiss, revelling in the utterly enticing manner Gerald's breath hitched in his throat when the warrior knight closed his fingers around the _attention deprived parts_ of his body, in the adept's low, rapturous moan when he started to move his hand slowly and deliberately and in the minute shifting of the long, pale body in his arms.

Damien could have gone on like this forever and felt himself get hard again, but to his amazement Gerald suddenly gripped his stroking hand and stopped him.

"Is that little flask of oil still in your pack, Vryce?"

Damien blinked, for a moment thrown off balance. Prior to their departure to Mount Shaitan he had indeed bought some decent oil for his boots and his kit, but dazed with desire he couldn't figure out why Tarrant was asking for the bloody stuff amidst their lovemaking. Then realization dawned, and Damien felt the colour rising in his face when he turned round wordlessly and reached for his scarce belongings.

Yes, the tiny bottle was still there, safely cushioned in Damien's last remaining pair of spare socks, and when he had unwrapped it with trembling fingers it glowed innocently in the clear morning sun. The inviting looks Gerald cast him under half-closed eyelids weren't half as innocent, and a queasy feeling fluttered in Damien's stomach, something he distantly recalled from his first sexual experience with a woman.

"Gerald, I know the basics, but I've never, well…" Damien trailed off, close to raking his hair in despair. Tarrant might harbour his own qualms despite his usual show of aloofness and hauteur, but right now he was the one who was quite apt at making a fool of himself.

"Anything you want to get of your chest?" The voice was pleasant with _just_ the right amount of veiled irony, the dazzling smile oh so sugary sweet, and Damien felt torn between the equally appealing temptations of kicking that incorrigible ass and kissing him senseless until Gerald begged for mercy.

In the end the warrior knight shouldn't have worried, because Tarrant took the matters into his own hands and pulled Damien on top of him while his right hand was already busy flipping off the small stopper. In a blink an oily substance coated his fingers, and Gerald was gazing up at him, his face flushed and graced with a wanton smile and a 'come on' look that left Damien breathless and dizzy with reawakening arousal.

_Pull yourself together and go__ easy, Vryce_, he admonished himself. _Give him time to adjust._ _He might have had some experience beforehand, but it's been a long time…_

Following his own advice Damien was careful, using just one finger at first and then two, registering every minute reaction to his slow, teasing movements. A bit of probing around rewarded him with a startled gasp followed by a rather enthusiastic groan, and Damien decided to explore that interesting development a little bit further. Fascinated he watched as Gerald's eyes slipped close, his lips parted and a faint concentrated frown appeared on his face. Vryce suspected his friend was so lost in sensation that he wasn't even aware that his hips were moving rhythmically by now, mirroring Damien's caresses.

Looking down on Tarrant an overwhelming surge of tenderness bloomed inside Vryce, and suddenly he had to blink to clear his eyesight. This wasn't just a lusty romp or a confirmation of survival against all odds in times of mortal peril for him, but something that ran so much deeper, more akin to his love for God than resembling anything he had ever felt for a human being before.

For a moment the sheer blasphemy of his thoughts sent a shiver down Vryce's spine, but when Tarrant moaned again and dug his fingers into his shoulder blades, his breath flying, he quickly refocused on more urgent matters.

"Now! I want you now, Vryce!"

"Are you absolutely sure about that, Gerald?" Damien enquired a bit sheepishly in a desperate attempt to avoid another horrifying blunder, although Tarrant's words hadn't left much room for misinterpretation. "I mean, this seems to do the trick, and I just could go on until…"

Gerald's shoulders trembled, and Damien could have sworn that a faint chuckle reached his ears which were burning with embarrassment by now. Tarrant might be approximately 950 years older, but Damien was no rookie himself, but a Knight of the Order of the Golden Flame, several titles omitted. So why the heck couldn't he stop behaving like an idiotic, moonstruck teenager around this man, damn him?

Grey eyes opened slowly, glazed over with longing, and Damien groaned when Gerald's mouth teasingly nipped at his throat and moved upwards, warm breath gentle on his flushed skin.

"But you are a mighty alluring teenager, Vryce", the former Hunter whispered into his right ear. "And yes, I am sure. Just shut up and ride me now, man of God, ride me like the devil."

His hairs standing on end Damien very nearly choked on his own breath at this raunchy invitation, something he definitely hadn't expected from the ever so controlled and cultivated Gerald Tarrant. His blood rushing rapidly from his brain downwards to more interesting areas he retained just enough of his wits to apply another generous helping of the precious oil and enter his lover a lot more carefully as he would have done at his first attempt.

Oh God, but there _was_ a difference between bedding a man or a woman. Whatever Damien had expected he wasn't in the least prepared for the tightness and almost unbearable friction, and buried deep inside Tarrant's heat Damien was quite glad he had already come once before, because he wouldn't have lasted a minute otherwise, not if his life depended on it. The _'ride me like the devil'_ part sounded even more appealing now, and in fact all his baser instincts screamed at him to let himself go and surrender to his need, but under the given circumstances it seemed more advisable to ease up a bit. Then Gerald let out a long sigh and shuddered against him, and Damien froze, suddenly too scared to continue.

_Don't you dare stopping now, Vryce! Oh please, don't stop!_

Shaking hands were on his hips, on his buttocks, tugging at him, urging him on with desperate intensity, and heartened by this proof of his lover's pleasure Damien started to thrust again, fighting to keep his movements slow and steady.

The channel had opened wide, either because Gerald wanted to share or because he was so close that he didn't give a damn anymore, and Vryce had never expected drowning to be so pleasant, sinking slowly below the surface of the bottomless well of his lover's body, mind and spirit. Joined in body and soul with Gerald he felt more whole and complete than ever, his own lust multiplying by his acute awareness of his lover's pleasure. The adept was clinging to him now, whimpering into his shoulder while the link offered no coherent thoughts anymore but a wild torrent of _yespleasetherethereohGod_, the _words_ tumbling over each other in a maddening rush, and finally Damien gave in to his own primeval madness. _Oh yes, my love, now I will truly ride you like the devil!_

For a last conscious moment Vryce had the eerie feeling that Gerald and himself had merged into one single organism with two bodies, their frantic motions, heartbeats and breath sequence speeding up in perfect synchronisation until Gerald broke the spell, bucking wildly against him.

_Harder, faster, more! Oh Damien..._

There was no way to resist that command, no way to stop. After a few seconds Gerald went completely still, muscles as rigid as stone, and hearing his lover crying out his name and feeling the lean frame jerking helplessly against his own Damien's mind blanked out for the second time that day while he bit down savagely on Tarrant's shoulder, leaving bloodshot bite marks.

When their heartbeats and breaths had already calmed down for a while the two men were still nestling in each other's arms, bodies and souls entwined and sharing languid thoughts and kisses until they peacefully drifted off into the realms of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter three: If I could make a deal with God…**

Author's note: Since I've read "Crown of Shadows" for the first time I've never managed to stop wondering why Damien abandoned Gerald at the Hunter's keep. That course of action is so untypical for him that it defies description, and I can only imagine that Tarrant somehow utilized the channel to _make_ him leave, for whatever reason. So this is my try at an explanation.

Alternative title: To post or not to post (well, apparently that's a joke, but considering the amount of time I needed for working out whether to post this story or not I could have had two children on my own already... Thanks again!)

Warnings: Please remember the warnings given in chapter one. Life's not a bed of roses, and fate can be cruel. This is not a fluffy story, ending like "and they lived happily ever after", so please don't accuse me for treating the characters badly. I suppose we all remember poor Gerald roasting for eight days on iron bars. I'm not _that_ wicked, but in a way I'm a slave of my stories. An idea pops up in my head, and it simply refuses to budge until I write it down.

This story and its even more depressing companion (yeah, that _is_ possible, I'm afraid…) originated in the following question asked someplace in the infinite realms of www: "What if Damien got Gerald pregnant?" Well, the demented gears inside my head started moving, and I tried to write a funny one-shot, concentrating on Gerald's boundless curiosity and his habit of taking notes on every conceivable interesting topic (getting pregnant at the age of approximately 950 plus being male is what I'd call _interesting_...). And look into which mess that 'funny one-shot' has gotten me now…

Obviously everybody who is repulsed by an act of procreation between two men might better stop reading here. I know human biology, but a shape-shifter who's essentially male having a child doesn't sound any stranger to me than transforming into a bird. If you consider this weird just wait until you come across the story that has Harry Potter laying eggs (not written by me!). Lol!

Anyway, "aided" by some bloodcurdling visions of the future(s) Gerald Tarrant will have to decide which path to choose, and he won't be very pleased about his options. For my part I'm inclined to forgive him getting hysterical; in fact that prospect of the future would scare the living daylights out of me... Slightly AU, because meeting Andrys at the keep won't be a surprise now.

On a very personal, miserable level: how on Earth do you describe an encounter with God? By keeping it as vaguely as possible and stumbling on as best as you can, I suppose… Sigh! And why do my 'author's notes' get longer and longer?

_'I am ready to meet my maker, but whether my maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.'_ (Winston Churchill)

With a start Gerald Tarrant came awake, scanning his surroundings for anything unusual. There was no obvious threat, and Vryce still slept at his side, his tanned face relaxed and peaceful. Dark had already descended, but an eerie glow seemed to hover at the mouth of the cave. Briefly Tarrant wondered why he didn't wake up the priest; if there was any danger doubtlessly it would be wiser to face it together, but he felt an uncanny conviction that whatever waited outside was meant for him alone. As in a trance he got up and made for the exit, drawn to the unearthly shimmer like a moth to a flame.

Stepping outside the glow intensified to a nearly unbearable intensity, and Gerald fell on his knees in utter awe, his eyes closed. Whatever the former Hunter had expected he wasn't in the least prepared for the entity that was ready to greet His fallen Prophet of the Law.

Gerald Tarrant had never been foolish enough to believe that the Lord would manifest himself in the guise of an old man with a long, white beard, holding court on a cloud and surrounded by His angels, not even in the more naive days of his youth. Those images of the One God were mere crutches for the simple minded who needed equally simple concepts to sustain their faith, not for the founder of the Church of Unification and Premier Knight of the Order of the Golden Flame.

So the adept wasn't too surprised that the divine manifestation which enveloped him with golden, tingling light had neither face nor voice. He would have recognized the Presence among millions, anyway, the memory burned into his brain cells since God had turned him down when He had come to Damien's and Jenseny's aid so many months ago.

This time he wasn't rejected, though, wasn't pushed back into the abyss of his personal hell. Purifying power washed through him, battling the remnants of darkness and aiding the healing of his soul the priest had started. There was sadness and grief in the touch, but also acceptance and love, an overwhelming, forgiving love that shook him to his core. So the name of the One God _was _mercy, after all, and distantly Gerald Tarrant realized that he was crying, but for once he didn't give a damn about pride and dignity.

All at once the visions started, bending reality, moulding it into something utterly frightening, their impact no less devastating than the gruelling scenes he had conjured for that deluded fool Andir Toshida back in Mercia.

To save his accumulated knowledge of a millennium he raced home, the loyal, stalwart priest in his tow, just to come face to face with a swarm of those bumptuous crusaders who were led by a green-eyed copy of himself, presumptuously adorned with an exact replica of the Prophet's armour and his circlet. Andrys! How could he dare, that little impostor? Seething Gerald had to witness the butchering of his true horses and the defilement of his study, but wrath soon enough turned to naked horror when he watched the priest's desperate last-ditch-attempt to save him, the bolt that had been aimed at Gerald's heart passing through the warrior knight's broad chest and killing him on the spot.

The demon inside him which should have died with the Hunter on Mount Shaitan roared back to life again, and Andrys never accomplished a second shot. In a blink Gerald's teeth were in the wretched young man's neck, healthy, purely human teeth, but sufficiently vicious to rip the throat and the life out of the miserable creature who had dared to kill his mate. Hot, salty blood flooded his tongue while the acid sulphur of bitterness and despair choked off any impulses of pity or compassion, and so he Worked the fae one last time, giving himself over to the darkness, taking every living soul inside the Forest with him and laying waste to the human settlements surrounding it.

None of the crusaders who had set out in all their pompous glory and religious zeal to destroy the Lord of the Forest ever returned to Jaggonath, and the dire failure of the crusade weakened the Church of Unification until thousands of followers converted to more promising, pagan deities.

Future after future unfolded before his horrified eyes, each one more terrifying than the last. There was no doubt: if Vryce took the bolt meant to kill the former Hunter with his own body to save his lover's life the Church he had shaped so many centuries ago would sink into obscurity. The man of faith Gerald Tarrant had never ceased to be at his core screamed in protest, his nails digging into his palms.

_Please, God, make it stop, I can't take it any longer! _Now Gerald knew how his victims must have felt when brought their worst fears alive for them, reduced to helpless begging to stop the unendurable torture. And how his mutilated soul had relished those heartbreaking pleads that had only served to fuel his sadistic pleasure until he had shivered in unbridled rapture. As he had secretly expected begging didn't help him any more than it had helped his victims, a sad experience he still remembered from his distant childhood.

Another vision raced through his overwrought mind, and this one was different. Vryce still accompanied him to the keep where Andrys was waiting for him, half mad with terror and his springbolt ready for the kill, but when his companion's body was tensing, readying for the deadly jump into the line of fire, he used the channel to bewitch the warrior knight, forcing Vryce to leave him at the mercy of his last living descendant despite Damien's adamant resolve to die in his stead. Frozen with dread Gerald had to face a bloodied sword and a severed head, his own eyes staring blankly into the void of death while the priest cried his heart out amidst the destruction of the keep, drowning in an inferno of guilt and grief, but alive.

Gerald was astounded at the level of pure relief that flooded his soul albeit having to witness his own apparent decapitation, and deep down in his heart he had to admit that the sight of Damien dying to save him was even more terrible to behold than the downfall of the Church of Unification. Although he had sacrificed his beloved and his children to secure his own continuing existence once before he wasn't too keen on repeating that grisly experience.

But whatever would happen to Vryce the visions clearly showed that even in this possible future the human population on Erna was still in for a very hard time. The images of his most treasured creation running rampart in the wake of their victorious crusade burned themselves into his brain with blinding intensity and filled him with dread and despair. Would mankind never learn? He had to witness small children being given to the flames, the constant threat that had loomed over his own appalling childhood, saw the pyres burning and the torture and murdering of innocents by the hands of a church which had turned into an instrument of terror and oppression, and Gerald couldn't help but raging helplessly at this terrible aberration.

Then the horrid images of brutal, mindless violence disappeared into thin air, just to be replaced by a profoundly dissimilar scene. Vryce was laying with a pretty young man, olive skinned and dark haired, and although Tarrant certainly wasn't an expert on human emotions anymore the desperate passion and intensity of their lovemaking made it quite clear that it wasn't just lust but something much deeper.

Gerald gasped, at first in stunned bewilderment, then with rising anger. Evidently he had been replaced pretty soon,and he felt a bitter laugh welling up inside him. How could he have been stupid enough to put his trust in Vryce's love? With a thousand years of experience in human wickedness he should really have known better, but he had been so sure that the former priest harboured genuine feelings for him. A channel between souls didn't lie, never, but maybe he had miscalculated, misinterpreted, had taken lust for love in his own accursed infatuation with that disloyal, traitorous priest.

A wave of pure fury and jealousy threatened to drown him, and for a moment he indulged himself with the pleasant imagination of slowly tearing that black haired son of a bitch apart into tiny screaming pieces while Vryce had to watch, rendered utterly impotent by the fae.

To Gerald's astonishment the core of his wishes seemed to have been granted somehow, because the erotic encounter abruptly changed to a much more sinister tableau. The damned youth was writhing in Vryce's arms again, and now he did scream indeed while the priest's weary, white face bore an expression of utter helplessness Tarrant had never witnessed on him before. One of his big, calloused hands soothingly rested on the youth's abdomen, and Gerald's eyes widened in horrified disbelief.

Alienated from human society since their birth a lot of adepts succumbed to the temptations of solitude, and lasting relationships were rare and reproduction was even rarer, but amongst them there had been whispered rumours about suicidal attempts at challenging the natural boundaries of the male gender for centuries now. Some adepts entangled in homosexual love affairs had been daring or desperate enough to try the impossible, but as far as Gerald knew nothing good had come out of it. The luckier ones hadn't conceived at all or suffered from early miscarriages and mostly survived their stupidity, but the few unfortunate souls who hadn't lost their unborn children had invariably perished along them.

Without a doubt the unknown youth was as male as he was pregnant, the quite obvious fact leading to the sole possible conclusion that Vryce had found himself another adept, young, innocent and sufficiently gullible to fall for the priest's damned attraction.

The young man doubled up again and clung to Vryce's hand like a drowning man, but Gerald wasn't able to feel a shred of pity, only a kind of twisted, distanced interest, his heart frozen to solid ice by Vryce's betrayal. When it was over and the tortured body relaxed the dark eyes snapped open and looked directly at him, crossing time and space with a gaze much too calm and undaunted for a man who had just howled in naked agony like a dying animal.

Feeling sick to his very bones Gerald barely managed to stifle a scream himself. In stark contrast to the youthful face and body the ancient soul staring at him with a fair amount of mock pity and impatience was utterly familiar, and he understood. Belatedly, but he understood, and a thousand years of striving for self discipline and control were wiped out in a second, the hysterical laughter forcing itself out of his constricted chest against his will with a vengeance until tears were running down his cheeks again. _Not that!_ _Oh my God, don't ask that of me. Please, don't. _

The better part of Tarrant's brain had shut down momentarily, and when he slowly came to his senses again he was lying rather undignified on his right side, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped tightly around himself, his pulse racing and the blood rushing inside his ears until he feared that his recently healed heart wouldn't be able to withstand the pressure much longer. The abominable visions still assaulted him in a blinding rush, but in his current state of shock he wasn't able to make head or tail of most of them. One scene stood out like a beacon in the darkness, though.

An unknown, white-haired man in the brown robes of a monk and a portly fellow who looked suspiciously like Karril in one of his numerous guises had put their arms comfortingly around a young boy. The strange group was gazing at an impressive oil painting in a museum, and Gerald gasped, not quite believing his eyes. He knew the picture very well, had indeed commissioned it to celebrate the birth of his daughter.

The odds against that painting surviving all those centuries, presumably hidden in some secret storage room at Merentha Castle, were incredible, but here they were, his lovely wife Almea tenderly cradling little Alix who had just been a few months old. His younger son Tory, still a toddler, was beaming, happy to spend some precious hours with his father, but Eric looked sullen, and Gerald remembered that his heir had never been one to stand still for more than a few seconds in a row and had thrown a tantrum until he was bribed with the promise of a 'real' unhorse to replace his aging pony. In spite of his worries the Neocount smiled, lost in his memories of happier times.

Suddenly the young lad turned around with a start, and Gerald very nearly choked on his own breath at the living proof that he had, with Damien's undeniable aid, somehow managed the impossible again. Grey eyes which lacked the haunted look his own had possessed until he had learned to hide his personal nightmares in a very private cabinet peeked curiously into the shadows, and golden amber coloured hair that was destined to darken to a shade of light brown over the years framed the same angelic features which had been the curse of his childhood. Nevertheless there was something very Vryce-like in the boy's demeanour, maybe the stubborn set of his jaw, and gazing at the strong, sturdy body the adept didn't harbour any doubts whatsoever who had in fact sired this child.

The clear, inquisitive eyes still searched the room, joined by Karril's much too knowing glance, but Gerald couldn't resist reading the golden plaque adorning the picture's elaborate frame: /Gerald Tarrant, the Prophet, first Neocount of Merentha, and his family/**. **Wonder of wonders, the Church had lifted its condemnation and had restored his identity! Gerald closed his eyes and murmured a grateful prayer, although he couldn't help but wonder about the price he and the priest would have to pay for this miracle. As far as he was concerned their conspicuous absence didn't bode well at all…

An irresistible force dragged him from his observation post, and Tarrant found himself on his hands and knees just a few metres away from the cave's entrance, trying to get a grip on himself while the mind-blowing visions continued mercilessly.

Vryce stuck the blade of a dagger into the flames of a dying fire, his tired features a mask of despair, but before Gerald was able to figure out what was going on the fleeting image of Damien morphed into his own alter ego who was apparently preparing for an impending battle, donning his armour with the assistance of a grave-looking Karril. Rakhene warriors and Knights of the Order fought and died on a blood-soaked battlefield, the gruelling scenes no less terrifying albeit taking place in utter silence, and a beautiful, grey-eyed man adorned with a golden crown unveiled an imposing numarble statue of an angel cradling a fallen warrior in midst of innumerable gravestones.

Horrific illusions of death and destruction were replaced by more peaceful, if no less bewildering images of machines and technology far beyond the adept's wildest dreams, but each and everything paled in comparison with the gigantic white metal tube which rose gracefully into a clear, blue sky.

When the visions had faded into nothingness for several minutes and a solemn oath had been sworn not to reveal bits of his knowledge to any living soul, including Vryce, Tarrant finally managed to get to his feet, swaying with exhaustion and feeling slightly light headed from the revelations that had been sprung upon him, not to mention experiencing a little 'talk' with God. Laboriously he dragged himself back to Vryce's side who was still sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted. The adept didn't begrudge the priest this rare moment of blissful oblivion: Damien had already seen hell, literally and metaphorically, and very probably the worst was still to come.

As if the warrior knight could sense Gerald's inner turmoil Damien twitched and moaned faintly, his eyeballs moving rapidly below closed lids, and Tarrant ached to banish the nightmares he didn't need any longer for his sustenance and to spare his lover the no less devastating hell of heartache and betrayal which was undoubtedly waiting for him.

For a few seconds his eyes feasted on the dear, rugged face, and accompanied by an intense pang of regret he spotted too many lines of sorrow for a man of Damien's age. Without the shadow of a doubt he had been the cause for most of those lines over the last few years, undermining the priest's faith until the seemingly insurmountable fortresses of his beliefs and morals had crumbled into dust long ago.

Unbelievably instead of trying to kill him, as Vryce had sworn into his face back in the rakhlands, the priest had repaid the repeated violation of his soul with growing acceptance, friendship and, most amazingly, love, a doomed love which was very likely bound to be transformed into bitterness and contempt as soon as Vryce found out how he had been tricked by the very man he had walked to hell and back for. Gerald's only consolation was the knowledge that more than anything else Damien had wanted the fallen Prophet to find his way back to God, and that his wish was now fulfilled, even if Vryce might never know that his heartfelt prayers hadn't fallen on deaf ears.

The thought of loosing Damien's affection hurt a bit too much for the adept's peace of mind, but although God in His wisdom had granted Tarrant the gift of choosing his own path the visions had made it abundantly clear that his choices would be of vital importance for the survival of mankind on Erna and the reclaiming of their Terran heritage, a goal Gerald had been striving for during all the long years of his existence. How could he deny the human race that rare, precious chance of reaching for the stars again?

Deep down in his heart Tarrant had never ceased to be a servant of the Church , and now he would stand by his vows and protect the human colonists on Erna as he had sworn so many centuries ago. Technically he was still the Premier Knight of the Order of the Golden Flame, after all, and if he wanted to use one of his subordinates as a pawn in a game whose deadly consequences were beyond human comprehension nobody was entitled to criticize his actions. Except his own damned conscience…

'_We use what tools we must'_, the Prophet had taught a millennium ago,and memorizing that famous theorem Gerald wasn't quite able to suppress a shiver. So he would use the priest once again, would lure Damien into his arms after he had adapted his body to previously unforeseen requirements, another unspeakable betrayal of love and trust which would count against him on Judgement Day, although in his suffering Damien would serve God's will, something quite befitting a man of the church. Then the adept remembered the 'youth' screaming in Vryce's arms, and he shuddered violently. Suffering seemed to be in store for both of them, in abundance.

"Crawl under the vulking blanket, Gerald", a drowsy voice interrupted his musings, "you're shaking like a leaf. What the heck are you doing outside in the middle of the night?"

Tarrant's teeth were indeed chattering, and he relented to the warrior knight's request without thinking twice, curling into Damien's welcome heat like a man freezing to death in an icy winter storm. Despite the gnawing contrition which was lurking just under a thin layer of rigid self control his treacherous body reacted to Damien's comforting proximity, and he pressed even closer with a hungry moan and an inviting thrust of his hips that were more telling than any words could have ever been.

Vryce drew back a little and stared at him, his gaze so full of wonder and longing that Tarrant barely managed to retain his composure. Much too soon those kind, hazel eyes would be brimming with unveiled disgust instead of affection, the love that had carried the warrior knight to Shaitan and beyond transformed to poisonous hatred by his perfidiousness, and Gerald desperately wanted to relish each and every precious second which was left to them, drowning his dread of the future and the nagging pangs of his conscience in a rush of passion.

When Vryce was asleep again he would use the channel to alter his lover's memory, enhancing Damien's unacknowledged yearning for the Hunter, but blocking all occurrences that had come to pass after Damien had healed his failing heart, a necessary, albeit regrettable, procedure to prevent the stubborn priest from laying down his life for Gerald in the bowels of the Hunter's keep. Hopefully their shared sacrifice of a fulfilled life side by side would suffice to increase the probability of the sole future worth fighting for until the events unfolded as they were meant to and carried them in their raging waters to shores unknown.

But even if the world was destined to perish tomorrow this night belonged to them alone, and Gerald had no intention of wasting valuable time with preliminaries or sleep. Pushing down his sorrow the adept smiled at his lover and pulled Damien on top of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter four: Drugs and Demons  
**

Warnings: nothing too bad, just a lot of angst and mentioning of alcohol abuse

Author's note: Argh, big problems with the time line. When the heck is the 'end of the dry season' in the northern part of the Eastern continent? Well, I don't know, so I presumed that Gerald 'died' at his stronghold at the end of July and that their meeting on Black Ridge Pass happened in late October. Let's say that Damien continued grieving and drifting for a while, but at long last travelled to Jaggonath at the end of the year (to continue with his grieving and drifting, poor sod).

Please keep in mind that Damien doesn't remember he and Gerald made love in the cave (Gerald altered his memory); otherwise the following chapters won't make any sense...

_My only love sprung from my only hate; too early unknown and known too late. (Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare)_

Jaggonath, 30th April (nine months later)

'Go', Gerald Tarrant whispered, (Crown of Shadows, page 482), and any remnants of common sense and free will suffocated by an overpowering wave of faeborn power Damien obeyed the irresistible command, his feet moving on their own account and carrying him to the threshold of the door. He had but managed a few halting steps when the familiar sound of a springbolt fired was followed instantly by a barely audible moan and the rustle of silken robes as Gerald Tarrant went down, the killing bolt buried deeply inside his chest. Horrified Damien whirled around while Andrys dropped the weapon, whimpering like a frightened child, his contorted face beaded with sweat and his pupils so dilated that the green iris wasn't visible anymore, but still sufficiently aware to draw his sword with shaking hands and raise it high above his head.

Tarrant moved feebly and groaned again, and Vryce steeled himself for a last-ditch rescue attempt. Perhaps the wound wasn't lethal after all, perhaps Gerald was still saveable if he could manage a Healing, but despite his best intentions he was moving ever so slowly, as if wading through quicksand, and then the sword came down in a deadly arc of doom, aimed at Tarrant's neck. A shower of gore splattered over Damien, drenched his clothes and ran down his face in rivulets like bloody tears, and something inside him snapped, drowning all reason in a sea of terror. He opened his mouth and screamed and screamed…

And was woken up in a tangle of his crumpled, soaked sheets by his own strangled outcries, as bathed in sweat as Andrys had been in that despicable nightmare and no less horrified. Dear God, would this never end? A few more weeks like this, and he was ready for the straight jacket. Still gasping for air and his vision impaired by the tears he had shed Damien groped blindly for the bottle of cheap whisky on his nightstand. Last night had seen too many drinks for his comfort, like so many nights before, but he simply needed the vulking booze if he wanted to drift off into a fitful sleep in the small hours of the morning at all. His adventures with the Hunter had brought him grey hairs in the dozen and a pretty collection of fresh scars on his body, but the deep, still bleeding injuries of his soul were so much harder to bear, smothering his vitality under a choking blanket of despair and regrets.

The gruelling memories which seemed to have burned themselves into his retinas had lost nothing of their surreal clarity or painfulness: Senzei's limp, lifeless body, poor little Jenseny who had sacrificed her life to rid the world of the Undying Prince, her lifeblood dripping all over the place, brave Hesseth falling to her death in that accursed ravine, the Hunter dying in the sulphuric, ashen hell of Mount Shaitan or burning, screaming, his scorched bones poking through brittle, blackened skin. And, worst of all and never failing to pierce his heart like a dagger, Gerald's severed head held up by his blood matted hair and thrown onto a pyre like piece of garbage.

How he could have left Gerald Tarrant, mortal, exhausted and powerless, at the mercy of his last living descendant still escaped him after all those months, and trying to remember that most devastating moment of his life he couldn't help but wondering if he had suffered from a short mental blackout back then, but whatever madness had befallen him in that accursed, crucial moment there was no excuse for letting down a friend in mortal peril. His guilty conscience had transformed the blank, dead stare of those startling grey eyes to poisonous accusation a long time ago, and the whispered question '_where were you in my hour of need?_' kept ringing inside his brain like a death bell, painful almost beyond the limits of endurance.

Meanwhile the Church of Unification under its newly elected patriarch had lost no time and had commissioned a gigantic painting for the cathedral to glorify its victory over evil incarnate, and when Damien had come across a rough draft of the portrayal in the Jaggonath Times he had been torn between the overpowering need to shred the vulking pages into tiny bits and a mad urge to laugh his butt off. Valiant Andrys Tarrant, the Neocount of Merentha, towered over the fallen Hunter, a scaly, fanged creature sprouting leathery wings that could have crept out of the abysses where the nightmares sleep. Damien remembered Gerald's angelic features and smiled, lost in his memories.

What an irony that the creature whose demise everybody was still celebrating had saved humanity from falling into the clutches of a sadistic, demonic abomination. No songs would be sung to honour the soul who had sacrificed his existence to secure the freedom of mankind, his name already eradicated from all church records centuries ago. _Damnatio memoriae _the ancient Romans on Earth had called this procedure the adept had told him one sleepless night on board of the Golden Glory. Gerald Tarrant, the brilliant scholar and scientist who had never ceased dreaming of mankind reaching for the stars again, not the undead nightmare who kept stalking his dreams, plundering the abysses of his soul and feasting on his blood and terror alike.

The Hunter had only bitten him once, drowning in pain and terror after he had been rescued from the living hell the Master of Lema had created for him, but in Damien's recurrent nightmares the cold mouth with its transformed, needle-sharp fangs settled on the delicate skin at the base of his throat, and the sucking and licking which was both appalling and so very sensual often left him in a state of frenzied arousal, a very disturbing development. Although reasonably tolerant concerning other people's sex life Damien had never fancied bedding a man himself, not to mention engaging in sexual activities with a demonic monstrosity, but Tarrant had always been the one exception of the rule, the only human being on Erna who had bested death and the Unnamed alike.

Memories of the night prior to their final ascend of Mount Shaitan flooded into his brain, the fateful night they had both expected to be their last and he had agreed to complete their bond by consuming a drop of the Hunter's icy blood, an act that would damn him forever in the eyes of his church.

„_Could you live with yourself, knowing that a part of me was in your soul, and would be until one of us died_?" (Crown of Shadows, page 387) Gerald had asked him. The Hunter had indeed died on Shaitan, willingly paying the ultimate price for mankind's salvation, but against all odds Gerald Tarrant, the man, had been revived, and for a blessed, but much too short period of time Damien's world had been brightened by wonder and hope, a vain hope that had been cruelly shattered by a springbolt and a sharp blade. Or so he had thought until that strange meeting had taken place on Black Ridge Pass roughly six months ago.

But whether Tarrant had truly died in the destruction of his domain or the mad tale told by the pretty, dark-haired youth bore at least an inkling of truth he had to come to terms with the fact that he had to find a life again, a life which didn't include that damned bastard who had either gotten himself killed by a half-mad child or had been granted an unbelievable third chance and had wandered off into his new existence without looking back.

Briefly Damien wondered how his former companion fared in this changed world _if _he had somehow managed to cheat death again, presumably still able to perceive the fae with his innate Sight but not being able to Work it anymore. Did he feel like a left over relic from ancient times like Damien himself, or had he managed to put some sense into his life? Maybe he had even found a consort by now, one of the slender, pale, black haired beauties the Lord of the Forest had preferred to hunt for centuries.

Damien felt an absurd rush of jealousy rushing through him. His own love life was next to non-existent; several half-hearted, dismal one night stands, futile efforts to numb his crushing loneliness, had left him empty and bored, wishing he would have had a stiff drink and a good nap instead. _Vryce, face it, you're getting old_, he thought wryly, but to his astonishment a crazy idea which had been haunting him for several weeks now raised its wicked head again, an idea concerning Karril and his willingness to shift into whatever form the pleasure hunters who enjoyed themselves in his services were craving for.

_Why should I, of all the absurdities, want to take part in an orgy in a heathen temple?_ Damien mused with rising exasperation. _If _he was up to the task at all and wouldn't make a complete fool of himself, what was more likely than not, judged by his disheartening failures in recent months. But he wasn't exactly yearning for an orgy, anyway, but for a certain snotty, arrogant, vain know-it-all who had driven him up the damn walls by his insolence on more than one occasion… Before he even realized what he was doing Damien was on his feet and on his way to the small hellhole the landlord of the flophouse which had been providing shelter for the past four miserable months dared to call a bathroom.

A thorough wash and a shave later, for once not disturbed by Erna's equivalent of cockroaches or other nasty surprises, Vryce made for the plywood wardrobe that looked as if it had been already ancient in the revivalist period and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Apart from the slightly mouldy smell that had seeped from the rotting cabinet boards into every single item of his scarce belongings yesterday's shirt was out of the question in any case; there was a coffee stain on the crumpled green cotton, and to make things worse his two pairs of trousers were in for a wash, as well. Damien had never cared for his clothing much, in stark contrast to the ever so vain Gerald Tarrant, but he was forced to admit that he had started neglecting himself a bit lately. So what? There was nobody there to impress, nobody to care. Somehow he had managed to loose every single soul who had given a damn for him, a fitting punishment, as far as he was concerned. He had sworn to protect his companions, and other than the loremaster Ciani who had considered a few tribes of rakh a more inspiring company than him he had failed them all, each and every one of them.

The feeling of crushing guilt returned with a vengeance, and crestfallen Damien flopped down on his bed and buried his tired face into his hands, very well aware that his nagging remorse had transformed into a full blown depression by now and that on top of his misfortune he was nursing quite an addiction, but without the aid of the treacherous, but well-tried crutch called 'alcohol' he would have jumped off a cliff weeks ago.

Even if a cruel prank had been played on him on Black Ridge Pass and Tarrant had indeed perished at his stronghold Vryce suspected that some day in the distant future he might be able to forgive himself for walking out on his companion if he just could have been sure that the adept had earned redemption with his act of altruism on Mount Shaitan and was safely cradled in God's forgiving love. But that was in the Lord's hands now, and the harrowing fear that Gerald had been condemned to eternal suffering in hell instead, his soul burning in the diabolical flames as his body had burned in the killing sun or shackled to iron bars placed over a blazing fire, had caused him to spend the darkest hours of the night on his knees in a lonely vigil more than once, literally praying himself hoarse in a desperate plead for God's mercy on the black soul of his fallen prophet.

Maybe burning together would be actually more bearable than this unendurable, never ending agony of dread and remorse, and after a century or two of merciless punishment for their doubtlessly innumerable sins he might actually have gathered sufficient courage for the daring task of telling Tarrant that his initial revolted loathing had been miraculously transformed into affection and yearning, a rather unexpected by-product of their joint quest to save mankind. The Lord's ways were indeed inscrutable, even for a former priest of the One God and Knight of the Order of the Golden Flame…

Despite his desolate mood Damien couldn't quite suppress a chuckle. Coping with the horrors of purgatory certainly wouldn't be pleasant, but dealing with a thoroughly pissed off Gerald Tarrant on top of it was an altogether different matter, and for a moment Damien seriously considered whether battling a whole horde of fiendish diabolical tormentors wasn't actually preferable to enduring Gerald's scathing remarks concerning childish infatuations and Damien's various shortcomings. Then he remembered Gerald's torture in a hell that had been created exclusively for him and the rippling ocean of his victims, and all mirth deserted him anew.

Notwithstanding those unwelcome memories of their trip to the horrific realm of the Unnamed presented a distinct reminder of his plan to visit Karril, the Iezu who had saved their doomed butts more than once despite his alleged non-interference policy. Stranded in a changing world whose rules he didn't understand any longer, both his vocation and his bloody enemy-turned-object-of-desire lost to him forever, trading bits of gossip about old times and their somewhat older mutual friend with the God of Pleasure promised to be conducive for raising his spirits from their current rock-bottom level. Then realization dawned, and Damien shook his head with rising exasperation.

_Whom do you want to fool now, Vryce?_ He chastised himself_. Karril? He'll read your mind in a heartbeat if he hasn't been laughing at your stupidity for weeks now. Yourself? Come on, you've already faced worse than admitting that your bloody hormones have at last gotten the better of you. __Talking__ is not quite what you have in mind, is it? _

In fact the warrior knight didn't have much of a choice, although he was loath to admit it. He had somehow managed to put his head over his heart, or, more precisely, over his bloody crotch, since the weird temptation to take part in Karril's revelries had started about three weeks ago, but by now his defenses were crumbling rapidly, and so he finally relented to the persistent pull and left the scruffy premises in a rush, having settled for the slightly more distinguished pair of trousers and a wrinkled, but clean brown shirt.

Regardless of the profound alterations that had been wrought on Erna Karril's temple hadn't changed in the least since his last visit. Half naked worshipers were still sprawling on the sunlit broad steps, beckoning him with lewd gestures and alluring words, and young, nefarious priests and priestesses in flimsy garments which didn't leave much to the imagination offered him a variety of drugs and spiced wine. Damien refused the aphrodisiacs and hallucinogens, but accepted a glass of ruby red wine which faintly smelled of berries and rare herbs, an unusual, but in no way unpleasant aroma.

"Nice of you to drop by, reverend", a well-known voice greeted him and Damien whirled around, nearly choking on his drink. "I just hope you're not planning to invite me to another one of your suicidal missions."

Face to face with a grinning Karril Damien couldn't quite suppress a smile himself despite his misgivings. Like his house of worship the Iezu looked so much his usual self, clad in a loose, black velvet robe which was held in place by several opulent brooches and his fingers adorned with his usual garish collection of mismatching rings, that the former priest had to fight an eerie sense of déjà vu.

"Hadn't planned on that, Karril", Damien retorted with a crooked smirk. "For my part I'm done with saving the vulking world for good. I'm getting too old for that kind of shit."

To his astonishment Damien felt a little bit inebriated, but tried not to wonder what kind of devilish substance had found its way into his system along the 'wine' which was sparkling so innocuously in the candle light. Nevertheless he wasn't too tipsy yet to miss the faint twitch of a muscle in the Iezu's face and the anxious look passing over the robust, amiable features for a fleeting instant, an astounding mimicry of human behaviour for a being whose body was a mere illusion, but a bit unsettling, nonetheless.

So what can I do for you, Reverend Vryce? I don't presume you came here just to say hello to an old friend. Maybe I can persuade you to join in our pleasant pastimes today? I hope you will forgive my candour, but you look like somebody who really could do with a bit of fun."

"Possibly you're in for a surprise, Karril", Damien muttered, his good humour instantly nipped in the bud by the hair-raising prospect of carrying out his salacious plan. I've got something special in my mind, though. Can we talk somewhere in private?"

Vryce could have sworn that his feet had never left the spot they had occupied a second ago, but to his astonishment the writhing couples all around him disappeared into thin air, and he found himself reclining on a king-size, red velvet settee which would have made any first class brothel proud. Matching curtains shrouded him and the Iezu who had made himself comfortable in a black leather armchair, and the warrior knight politely declined a second helping of the deceptive liquid which had apparently been waiting for his attention on a dainty gilded table and got down to the nasty business of briefing the Iezu on his problems.

Karril watched him intently while sipping on his wine, his dark eyes never leaving the warrior knight's face, and Damien felt his cheeks reddening and his ears burning as he told the Iezu about his insufferable shame on leaving Gerald to die all on his own, his insomnia caused by naked dread of the recurrent nightmares of Tarrant's death and his resulting alcohol abuse and at long last, without a doubt the most humiliating topic on his wretched agenda, about his lustful but nonetheless rather troubling erotic dreams concerning the Hunter.

When Vryce had finished his little speech an uncomfortable silence descended on them, and he had to fight a mighty urge to pick at the hem of his shirt, squirming with naked embarrassment while Karril busied himself with his bejeweled goblet, apparently pondering the revelations that had been sprung upon him. When their eyes finally met again after what had seemed like a small eternity to Damien the former priest held his breath.

"And now you want me to play the Hunter for you?" Karril enquired gently, a trace of unfamiliar compassion clouding his eyes. "To get those _urges_ out of your system, just this once and no strings attached? But what about your church, priest? Your God? I don't know much about your complicated faith except the scarce snippets Gerald passed on to me over the centuries, but exorcising the devil by coupling with a pagan deity impersonating a vampire doesn't sound like a church-approved method to me."

'Over the centuries...' Damien swallowed hard, his heart suddenly in his mouth. With the sole exception of himself Tarrant had found but one friend in the last nine hundred years of his existence, and that was the very creature who was sitting no more than five feet away right now, sipping complacently at his bloody drugged wine. If the adept had truly escaped death once again it would have been logical to turn to the Iezu for support, and remembering the piercing black stare Damien didn't harbour any doubts whatsoever that if the youth had indeed been a wondrously transformed Gerald Tarrant his famous brain cells were still doing perfectly fine. Why on Earth and Erna hadn't he thought about that possibility earlier?

_Because you were much too busy with your damned self-pity and drinking yourself out of your vulking mind, Vryce!_ Damien remonstrated himself. He had lost six bloody months grieving and boozing, and in the meantime Gerald could have travelled literally anywhere on the confounded continent. Perhaps he had even decided to cross Novatlantis again, not an advisable course of action regarding the uproar and civil war which were very likely still plaguing the Eastern lands, but when had it ever been possible to predict Gerald Tarrant's actions?

A slight trickle of cold sweat was running down the warrior knight's back by now, and he gritted his teeth in a desperate effort to stop himself from panicking. Taking Karril's accustomed mischievous sense of humor into consideration it was very well possible that the Iezu had been waiting patiently with spilling the beans until Damien was ready to ask the correct questions, a regrettable omission which could be remedied at once.

What could have been a promising road to success quickly proved to be a dead end. When Damien brought up the encounter with the pretty young man on Black Ridge Pass Karril flatly refused to comment on the unexpected meeting, but watching the God of Pleasure unobtrusively the warrior knight didn't fail to notice that the Iezu was the one squirming uncomfortably in his armchair now, and that Karril's dark eyes evaded his questioning gaze at any price, a strange behaviour which did nothing to dispel Vryce's supposition that something very strange was going on behind his back.

Nevertheless pestering the tight-lipped Iezu with questions about Tarrant's fate was apparently a road to nowhere, and with regard to the youth's revelations concerning the terms that had been set for Gerald's continuing survival Damien couldn't bring himself to begrudge Karril his secrecy. The last thing he wanted was risking the adept's life, and if merely talking about him could prove lethal Vryce would have to forsake his foolish hopes of holding Gerald in his arms again for good. Tarrant was unattainable, dead or alive, but he would have the illusion instead, _'just this once and no strings attached'_, as Karril had stated quite pointedly, an outright futile act of sheer despair which hopefully would save him from spending his remaining days as a gibbering wreck in one of Jaggonath's nuthouses.

The new-found conviction must have shown clearly on Damien's face, because Karril sighed and put down his goblet with a shocking finality that sent a tremor through the warrior knight's sturdy frame.

"Though I don't care much for your morals and your church sensibilities I really appreciate what you did for Gerald, priest", the Iezu pronounced softly, and the undisguised sadness and anxiety in his low voice made Damien's hairs stand on end. "You were his friend, don't bother denying it, and for this reason only I'd like to warn you. Are you absolutely sure you desire this, and can you live with the consequences of your decision? If I were you I'd rather visit the cathedral to pray for guidance, forget about the Hunter and start a new life. There are whorehouses with willing young maidens or boys aplenty in Jaggonath, and if no one's up to your refined tastes you can always come back for one of my priestesses. That's my advice, and I don't give it light-heartedly."

In spite of his own doubts and worries Damien stubbornly shook his head, and accompanied by another heartfelt sigh the God of Pleasure nodded his assent and passed him a jet-black cup which had appeared out of the blue, filled with an ominously smoking purple liquid:

„Drink that: it will help you to relax. I'll be back soon". With those words he vanished on the spot, leaving behind a perplexed Damien who suspiciously ogled said vessel and its still fuming contents with no small amount of concern.

_To hell with it_, he thought and emptied it in one single, resolute gulp.

The drink very nearly scorched the warrior knight's throat, and when the fire spread into the more remote parts of his body the room started swimming, and his vision blurred rapidly until the world faded to shades of grey.

_The vulking bastard has drugged me_ was about the last coherent thought Damien Kilcannon Vryce was able to think. Then his eyes closed, and he lost consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Magic mirror on the wall**

Disclaimer: I don't own either the Coldfire Trilogy or the German fairy tale 'Snow White and the seven dwarfs', made popular by the Brothers Grimm

Warnings: none (except a discussion whether it's wise for Gerald to get knocked up…;-))

Magic mirror on the wall, Who is the fairest of them all? (Snow White and the seven dwarfs)

Karril rematerialized at the door of Gerald's quarters. Long suffering experience had taught him that intruding into the adept's privacy without a proper invitation would earn him a deadly glare and a generous dosage of Gerald's infinite supply of bitchy remarks at the very least, and in his current state of nerves he could do without them, thank you very much.

When he had left the former Hunter to his own devices at midday to welcome Vryce at his temple Gerald Tarrant aka Hawthorne had been in a foul mood, anyway, a temper which unfortunately hadn't been soothed by the adept's second bath in roughly three hours. Adding fuel to the fire of Gerald's ire didn't seem an advisable course of action if one had no intention whatsoever of being the second Iezu sent to whatever afterlife which was waiting for them by the same ruthless human being who was currently preoccupied with preparing to seduce the deplorable priest.

Karril remembered Vryce's stricken face and had to suppress a very human notion of remorse. Damien had looked like hell with his rapidly greying hair and those harsh lines of sorrow deeply etched into his handsome features, a mere shadow of the vigorous, bulky warrior knight he had once been.

Despite his bluntness and tiring morals Vryce was an honourable, benevolent fellow who had somehow managed to rescue the adept from utter damnation against all odds, an incredible achievement for which the God of Pleasure would be eternally indebted to him, and his active participation in tricking the unsuspecting priest into an act of such imbecilic idiocy that it defied description weighed heavily on his shoulders. Vryce was a man, a thinking, feeling human being and not a drone, after all! But as usual Gerald had made himself rather clear that he didn't have much of a choice if he valued his existence…

With great difficulty Karril resisted the urge to tear at his illusionary hair in sheer despair, the unrelenting mishap which seemed to follow Hawthorne at the heels slowly but surely getting the better of him, something that simply wasn't supposed to happen to one of his kind.

"All I am, my dear Reverend, is the hunger for pleasure that resides in your own soul, given a face and a voice and enough knowledge of etiquette to mimic human interaction. That's all. No love, no loyalty, only a ghost of self-interest in human guise" (Crown of Shadows, page 177) he had told Vryce prior to their suicidal trip to Tarrant's private hell, and so it should have been, but even back then both the adept and the priest had rejected his flimsy allegation, and with good reason.

If self-interest truly were the driving force behind his actions like every sane being he'd certainly give Gerald Hawthorne a wide berth, but in truth he cared for the adept, cared for him deeply, and sometimes Karril couldn't help but wonder if this tangled mess of emotions might indeed be identical with the strange infatuation mankind called 'affection'. Perhaps being created of one single facet of a certain mortal was only the beginning and not the end of the matter, and an Iezu could in fact shatter the boundary of his aspect and evolve like humans did, a disconcerting, but nonetheless very exciting thought.

At Karril's return to his temple after Calesta's fall and his extended stay with his family on Mount Shaitan Jaggonath had been buzzing with more or less unconfirmed rumours like a hive with not bees. The victorious crusaders were still busy with the destruction of the Hunter's domain, but they had sent a messenger who carried the unbelievable news that the Lord of the Forest who had plagued the continent for centuries was dead, sent to hell by Andrys Tarrant, the future Neocount of Merentha.

Fortunately Karril's illusionary body didn't have to rely on the functionality of a fallible human heart, because otherwise he might have succumbed to a heart attack himself. Before he had been able to recover from the shock and travel on the fae currents to the site of the disaster a young man had shown up in his temple, and recognizing the _youth's_ unique presence the Iezu had come uncomfortably close to shedding very human tears of naked relief for the first time in his long existence, but the mortified expression on the adept's youthful face when Karril had practically jumped at him and pulled him into a tight embrace had almost been worth the scary experience. Almost.

Karril's incredulous happiness at seeing his old friend alive and unharmed had lasted exactly as long as it had taken him to read Gerald's mind, turning to disbelieving horror when he'd come across the asinine little deal the adept had been forced to strike with his cruel God. _And they say 'the name of the One God is mercy'_ Karril seethed full of unveiled disdain. Hadn't Vryce and the Hunter already saved the world once, offering their lives in exchange for humanity's freedom? Surely the two men deserved a reprieve now, a bit of peace and quiet to pick up the pieces and start all over again.

"Want to come in" a dry voice cut into his musings, "or do you prefer having a picnic on my door step?"

_Your doorstep in my temple, my friend_, Karril thought with a flash of exasperation. Gerald's ingenious capacity of raising one's hackles had evidently survived both his second death and resurrection and his final shape-shift, and the unfamiliar, slightly husky voice had been oozing with a very familiar sarcasm. Apparently Hawthorne's tetchy mood hadn't improved since he left him a few hours ago, and the God of Pleasure braced himself for the string of acerbic comments doubtlessly laying in store for him and opened the door.

The living room was empty, but regarding the amount of fragrant steam which wafted into the chamber from the adjacent bath Gerald had just emerged from his third ablutions in roundabout six hours, a record even for the ever so fastidious adept. The God of Pleasure wasn't in the least surprised to find his friend facing his reflection in the huge, antique mirror which dominated the northern wall of the spacious bedroom, and despite the dead serious situation Karril had to fight down a hysterical bout of mirth.

An extensive collection of clothes in various styles from the revivalist to the contemporary had obviously been pulled from the massive novebony drawer and then carelessly discarded on the matching bed, almost burying the perfectly tidy bedcovers and quilts under oodles and oodles of velvet, silk and the occasional glimpse of black leather, and the humid air was heavy with scented bath oil and a heady, spicy perfume which perfectly suited Hawthorne's complexion and exotic features. Then the adept turned round with the innate grace of a hunting cat, and Karril instantly forgot all about human clothing customs and pricey perfumes while his mouth went dry in a flawless, but utterly involuntary mimicry of human behaviour.

For once Gerald hadn't bothered to braid his long mane of raven hair which was held back from his face by a delicate golden band, but it weren't the glossy, jet-black strands caressing the small of Hawthorne's back that made Karril wish he could trade places with the damned priest.

Layers of red silk were flowing down from the adept's shoulders to the floor, leaving his tanned arms bare and held in place by two golden brooches on his shoulders. Though not an expert on jewellery Karril was quite certain that the pair of beautifully crafted phoenixes with their glittering emerald eyes had cost a small fortune, but his enthralled gaze was fixed on the slender body whose alluring contours shimmered through the sheer silken veils. Dear Mother of the Iezu! Offered this tasty treat on a silver plate Vryce would be only too happy to fulfill his duty, and the Iezu already regretted that he had wasted a pinch of his potent aphrodisiac herbs on the besotted priest.

"Do you like the view?"

"Do you really care if _I_ like the view, my friend" Karril replied with a crooked grin, "or do you request my humble opinion whether your endearing priest will throw you on the floor and shag you out of you insane mind as soon as he takes a look at you?"

The adept threw him a withering glare, and the God of Pleasure didn't doubt that if Hawthorne were still able to kill with his thoughts he'd be in for a lot of trouble. "If I may remind you" Gerald snorted derisively "the priest isn't supposed to '_shag me out of my mind'_, as you so crudely put it, but to act his part and father a child, and as you very well know the matter is much too important to leave anything to chance."

If somebody had asked for Karril's opinion he would have advised Gerald to cut down on his worries concerning the priest and his willingness to engage in sexual activities with the former Hunter. In Vryce's state of mind, intoxicated by the Temple's famous love potion in the deceptively innocent guise of a sweet berry wine, bewitched and ridden with the worst case of guilt mixed with hormonal overkill Karril had ever witnessed the warrior knight wouldn't give a damn if Gerald wore a curtain plus a matching lampshade on his head.

Valiantly Karril fought down an amused chuckle. Nine centuries of an occasionally rather turbulent acquaintance with the very complicated creature who had meanwhile refocused his attention on his enticing reflection had taught the Iezu that folks enjoying themselves at his expense brought out the worst in Gerald, and grating on the bristling adept's nerves was outright nonsensical plus potentially lethal and would accomplish nothing but putting even more pressure on their already strained relationship,

Nonetheless he wasn't able to fathom how Gerald with his brilliant, analytic brain could expect him to believe the blatant lie that fretting in front of that histrionic mirror for hours and having three baths in a row were mere preparations for a quick, businesslike act of procreation. The Hunter had never been prone to fooling himself, and sticking to that ludicrous pretense despite his awareness that Karril could read his true intentions in the blink of an eye anyway was so unlike him that the God of Pleasure couldn't help but feeling more than slightly worried.

These concerns, however, were a lark compared to the stultifying dread which washed over Karril each and every bloody time when he remembered the professed purpose of Gerald's participation in the human mating game. The other day he had talked to his old friend, the lore master Ciani, who had at long last left the Rakhlands and had returned to Jaggonath, and her ghastly rendition of tales about male adepts and their doomed attempts at bearing children had frightened the living daylights out of him. Although he already suspected it an utter waste of breath the God of Pleasure steeled himself for a last-ditch-attempt to talk some sense into his stubborn friend.

"Please, Gerald, listen to me just this once, and if you still want to carry on with your plans afterwards I won't object anymore. You know you can rely on me, don't you?"

Stepping closer the Iezu rested his hand lightly on Hawthorne's narrow, scantily clad shoulder, an unusually intimate gesture which caused the adept to flinch uncomfortably, but to Karril's astonishment he didn't draw back.

You've been out of sorts for months now, because your mortal body hasn't coped with adjusting to those unspeakable modifications you have imposed on it yet. Just allow yourself some extra time to recuperate and…"

"I've wasted nine damned months by now", the adept snapped crossly, "and the world's already started falling to pieces. It has started, Karril, and I can't just sit back and wait until those pompous fools have ruined my Church. And besides I'm perfectly fine!"

"The hell you are, my friend' the God of Pleasure replied with a sigh, "and it's going to get worse if you actually conceive. I don't know much about the arcane mysteries of human anatomy, but a male body isn't made for this kind of ordeal, you know."

"_If_ I conceive?" Gerald raised a sarcastic eyebrow, and his aura of complacent condescension was almost tangible. "Don't be denser than you have to be, Karril, and spare me your ridiculous mother hen inclinations, if you don't mind. Of course I will conceive. I made sure of that. You don't assume I want to go through this again and again, do you?"

All at once Hawthorne's pretty features softened and he graced the Iezu with one of his rare smiles. "Tonight's Beltane, Karril. You might have never heard of it, but it used to be an ancient pagan fertility festival on Earth, and the accompanying orgies would have stilled your hunger for weeks. Can you imagine a more appropriate night for creating new life? I don't think so. And now let's get down to business and have a look at Vryce."

The absolute conviction in Hawthorne's voice stilled Karril's tongue for good, and he gaped at his incorrigible friend in utter awe. Gerald had indeed left nothing to chance, and any attempt to dissuade him from his insane plans had been doomed from the beginning. The dice were cast, and all he could do was stand by his friend and hope for the best.


	6. Chapter 6

**Dance me to the end of Love**

Disclaimer: I don't own either the Coldfire Trilogy or Leonard Cohen's 'Dance me to the end of Love'.

Author's note: nothing bad; slash, but not very graphic

Private author's note: Ugh, sometimes life sucks! My ancient cat had to be put out of her misery yesterday, and I'm a bit beside myself. So if I missed too many grammar and spelling mistakes don't be mad at me...

Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone / Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon / Show me slowly what I only know the limits of / And dance me to the end of love. (Leonard Cohen)

Damien came to himself with a start and stared at his surroundings, completely baffled. Ancient trees of a species unbeknownst to him were craning their gnarled branches upwards, branches that eerily resembled blackened, twisted limbs from which misshapen leafs and strings of lichen dangled like strips of rotting meat. The plaintive howling of a lonely wolf mixed with the unearthly hunting cry of an owl, an ominous omen that sent a shiver down the warrior knight's spine. Without a shadow of a doubt he knew he had returned to the Forest, the Hunter's domain.

„But it's been burned and gone", a remote part of Vryce's brain piped up, just to be smothered in an instant by the magic of the night and the wondrous pull that urged him on very much against his will, and the tangled wall of twigs and undergrowths parted for him, welcoming him like a lover, until he stepped out into the open and faced the Keep.

The Hunter's stronghold looked like a fairy castle in the dazzling light of the full moon, a revivalist dream of sweeping arches, perpendicular windows and finials wrought delicately from black volcanic glass, breathtakingly beautiful, but of a sinister, terrible beauty so befitting the Keep's master that Damien's racing heart skipped a beat.

The castle's doors opened on their own account, and Vryce passed in a dream-like state through those forbidding jet black chambers, the blood red silk tassels and scarce glimpses of gold all but emphasizing the menacing gloom of the interior, until he entered the small revivalist chapel he remembered so well from his first visit. To his dying day he'd never be able to forget the horrendous revelation that the loathsome monstrosity called the Hunter was in fact the fallen Prophet and founder of his faith, the Neocount of Merentha.

Damien's disgust and horror had defied description, but rage and sheer necessity had driven him on just as he was driven by the yearning of his heart now until the novebony doors with its carved battle scenes had opened for him and Senzei Reese to reveal the Hunter's audience chamber. Finally face to face with the accursed demonic entity which had been patiently waiting for them in the centre of the room, so unbearably arrogant and regal in his flowing revivalist robes, its cold, inhuman eyes weighing their souls and a slight smile curling its mouth, the mere sight of the collar of his order around Tarrant's neck had very nearly sufficed to drive him over the edge. That creature wasn't a servant of the Church of Unification any longer but a demon, a _thing_ in the guise of a man which had forsaken any rights to be called human when the adept had slaughtered his wife and his children, bartering his humanity to the forces of the dark. How full of himself he had been back then, how self-righteous and foolish.

Damien still found the Hunter's malignant presence in his audience chamber almost palpable, but the spacious room with its arches and vaulted ceiling was empty, the silence oppressive. For a moment the warrior knight was at loss what to do, but then a daring idea crossed his mind, and he allowed himself to be guided by his instincts alone. His eyes squeezed tightly shut Vryce walked across the chamber without stumbling or bumping into a piece of furniture even once until he stopped dead in his tracks about three steps short of the opposite wall.

Now Damien's eyes snapped open, and for the first time he realized the delicate lines which had been etched into the black walls, a swirling haze of silver which seemed to perform a wild, chaotic dance at first, but settled down into a well-known pattern of innumerable stars and planets after a short period of adjustment: the Milky Way, their lost heritage, with their mother planet Earth cradled in one of the galaxy's spiral arms.

Vryce stepped even closer and squinted. Yes, it hadn't been an illusion: the tiny silver dot which marked their home planet stood out from its plane surroundings, and Damien's groping fingers at long last settled on a little button which was utterly unrecognizable even at a short distance if one didn't know what to look for. With a smile Damien pressed the button, and the floor started rotating, revealing a central opening which gave access to black numarble stairs.

In a trance Damien descended the even but steep steps which had been carved into the adamant black volcanic glass by human sorcery far beyond the warrior knight's comprehension, walked through passages hidden by intricately Worked shields and wards which should have never granted access to a mere mortal but let him pass without so much as a murmur, descended more and more flights of jet black stairs until he felt like walking the bowels of Erna itself. Suddenly Vryce found himself face to face with an impenetrable black wall which blocked any further advance, but without wasting a second thought he put his palm on it, and a door adorned with gorgeously carved scenes from the prophet's earthly life appeared out of nowhere and opened.

Deeply below-ground Damien Kilcannon Vryce at long last entered the heart of the Keep, the Hunter's secret lair, and there, in a secret chamber whose lightless menace had never been disturbed by a single ray of sun- or moonlight, lay the mysterious youth he had met on Black Ridge Pass on a slab of black numarble. The pitch-black storm cloud of waist length hair mixed with a veritable waterfall of red silk flowing over the edge of the slab like a frozen river of blood, and for a fleeting instant Vryce remembered the boundless ocean of Tarrant's victims, writhing in agony, their cold, lifeless limbs restless even in death.

The more stubborn part of Damien's brain which was still able to think coherently wondered dimly why Karril had chosen to impersonate the bloody youth instead of the Hunter, and disappointment cooled down his desire by several degrees. That hadn't been part of the deal, and for a moment the warrior knight seriously considered backing out of the strange arrangement, but then the black eyes opened, locked with his own, and Damien's feet moved on their own account and carried him to the adept's stony bed in four long strides.

A slender, tanned hand unfastened the golden clasps which had held the transparent layers of fabric into place, and when blood red silk glided down the sides of Gerald's resting place with a seductive rustle Damien's breath caught in his throat, and he forgot all about Karril as the whole damned world except the naked body laid bare before his hungry eyes faded into non-existence.

Olive coloured skin had replaced polished ivory, but the pretty, exotic face and the long, graceful limbs were no less enticing, the delicate bones perfectly proportioned, and Vryce smiled tenderly, remembering all the myriads of occasions he had cursed damned Gerald Tarrant's vulking vanity. Somehow it was comforting that in a changing world the former Hunter still had his priorities straight.

Meanwhile Gerald's fingers hadn't been idle and had moved on from ridding him of his crumpled shirt to unlacing his pants. Evidently the adept had no intention of wasting valuable time, and Damien was only too happy to comply.

Somewhere in the process Vryce found himself flat on his back, the silk cool under his naked body and a slight imperfection of the stone uncomfortably pressing into his right buttock, but when the slim, wiry body straddled him, the unbelievably soft skin caressing his coarser one, all rational thinking dissolved to a fog of unbridled lust, and Damien wouldn't have minded resting on a bed of nails. Those dark, fathomless eyes kept him enthralled, windows to the indomitable, proud soul which had witnessed nearly a millennium and shone through the transformed body like a black sun. How could he ever have doubted who the youth was?

Soft lips met his, and the warrior knight hardly remembered how to breathe. A trickle of tears caused by pure joy ran down Damien's face and when a gentle tongue licked the moisture off his temples, Gerald's quick breath so warm and soothingly human on his flushed face, he felt himself gliding easily into the trembling, slender body in his arms. Much too easily, and for a split second Vryce's senses went on red alert. Something wasn't right, had to be different, but the first catlike movements on top on him destroyed the minuscule reminders of his thinking capacity, and Damien surrendered to the enchantment and the waves of lust rolling through his abdomen.

Gerald definitely still was an expert in the art of torture, taking him to the brink and slowing down to a standstill when his lover came too close. Again and again, until Damien lost the last bit of restraint and started begging for his release, at the limits of his endurance. All at once the link flashed into existence again, and now he was able to feel his lover's pleasure as well, his mounting need, and with Gerald's muscles tightening around him Vryce was damn sure that the time for restraint had come for an end.

Invisible bands of faeborn power which had bound him tight shattered, and Damien turned around and pulled Gerald with him, under him, the adept yielding without so much as a whisper of protest and moving with him in a rhythm as old as the human race. Then he felt those neat, manicured nails raking his back and sharp teeth biting into his shoulder in a vain attempt to stifle an outcry, heard his own hoarse voice scream Gerald's name and drowned in his ecstasy.


	7. Chapter 7

**The day after**

Warnings: Well, you don't have to fasten your seatbelts this time. I've returned from the realms of (soft) porn and promise to behave. For a while, at least. ;-). I don't think this chapter contains anything too offensive. The folks who don't read Mpreg fics on principle will have dropped out by now, anyway.

Author's note 1: Thanks for your kind reviews, Black Dragon's Ghost and WereBunny87! You really keep me going. And WereBunny, you just have to read the Coldfire Trilogy. It's simply awesome!

Author's note 2: Is anybody going to write for the 'Yultide treasure' this year? I think I will participate for the first time (Coldfire fandom, of course). Black Dragon's Ghost, pleeeease! I've already made up my mind what I would like to read (cackles gleefully à la Karril).

Oops! A few minutes ago I read that you have to register for at least **three** fandoms, and on top of that misfortune the stories are randomly assigned. Grumble! But nonetheless Yuletide supports RARE fandoms, so anybody wanting to write a 'Coldfire' fic story should have a decent chance.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooo

Be careful what you wish for – you just might get it (proverb).

Oooooooooooooooooooooo

When Damien finally regained consciousness, his head hammering like a stampede of unhorses and his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, he wondered if he had been beaten with a club or if he had indulged into the rather dubious pleasure of partaking in a drunken brawl. Carefully he opened an eye and found himself resting on a comfortable red velvet settee which definitely didn't represent a piece of his current dwelling's more than modest interior. What the heck…?

A bejewelled cup and a pitcher of water were waiting for his attention on a small side table adorned with obscene carvings, and the dehydrated warrior knight instantly knocked back two helpings of the precious stuff without sparing a second glance at the wooden men and women frozen in rather acrobatic positions.

Groaning Vryce dragged himself into the vertical, his befuddled brains buzzing like an angry swarm of not hornets which had by now chased off the equines in the bloody zoo which apparently occupied the space where once a fine brain had done its duty, and barely managed to fight down a vicious bout of vertigo and nausea.

Damien squeezed his watering eyes shut to protect them against the golden afternoon sun shining through the small window and forced himself to take a few deep breaths until the sickening dizziness subsided somewhat and he was reasonably certain that the contents of his stomach would stay where they belonged. He had always been able to hold his drink, but now he definitely was suffering from what felt like the worst hangover ever, and Vryce didn't dare to imagine the nasty alcoholic beverage which had managed to wreck that kind of havoc on his usually quite robust system.

The mental imagine of a goblet containing a mysterious, fuming liquid formed before his inner eye, and the memory of last night's events hitting him with the destructive force of a tsunami a wave of mortifying shame rushed over the warrior knight. How could he? The Hunter had died on Mount Shaitan, and if the mortal man Gerald Tarrant had somehow survived his supposed death at the Keep he had apparently picked up the pieces and gotten a life without needing his discarded friend Damien Vryce. His heart clenched painfully inside his chest at the thought, but sooner or later he would have to come to terms with Gerald's decision.

_Sure, Vryce, keep telling yourself that, and you might believe it on the day hell freezes over_, Damien thought wryly. May be that painful wound would never truly heal, but fester under a thin layer of forced acceptance and resignation until his dying day.

Staggering to his feet Damien had to suppress a moan. Parts of his body literally felt on fire, and when he opened the purple, richly embroidered velvet gown which had been loosely draped around his bulky frame he gasped with shock at the long scratches which were disfiguring his bare shoulders and were, judging by the burning pain, doubtlessly continuing on his back. On top of that he felt sore in places he wouldn't mention, and a tender spot close to his throat throbbed with a dull ache as well. When he touched the wound and inspected his fingers afterwards they were covered with a thin smear of congealed blood.

Damien cringed with embarrassment. He had never been fond of the bigoted thesis that true devotion to the one God of his faith demanded the purging of one's natural urges, his controversial opinion fortunately supported by the Prophet's writings a thousand years ago and grudgingly accepted by the religious authorities, and over the years he had participated in many a lustful romp with quite passionate lovers, but last night's half-crazed, savage copulations had been a different kettle of fish altogether. The God of Pleasure in the guise of the youth from Black Ridge Pass had played all tricks of his trade on his willing flesh, had pushed him far beyond the limits of restraint and self-control until he had almost gone insane with blinding ecstasy, screaming Gerald's name over and over again and clinging to his partner like a lifeline, up to the point when his body had shut down his non-essential functions from sheer exhaustion.

"Awake at last, priest?" a well known voice interrupted his uncomfortable musings, and Damien very nearly jumped out of his skin. "I had already started to think we should call in a healer to get you back on your feet."

_If you talk about the devil_ Damien sighed inwardly, cursing the Iezu's unheralded approach who had, as usual, not bothered to use the door. Although the warrior knight was very well aware that Karril's temple had presumably witnessed worse acts of debauchery and that the Iezu had been a more than willing participant in their dubious activities he couldn't help but feeling utterly ashamed, and he blushed furiously.

"Karril, I…" Vryce started and trailed off awkwardly, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. "It doesn't happen very often, but right now I don't know what to say."

The Iezu grinned and stepped closer, patting his shoulder amicably with his abundantly ringed hand. "Don't worry, Damien. You assuaged your needs, and feeding on your pleasure was doubtlessly a delicious treat for me, so you could call it a fair trade. But let me give you an advice, priest", the God of Pleasure continued. "Let the bygones be bygones and find something worth living for. I'm sure that Gerald would agree with me and wish you all the best. If you need a friend to talk to just send me a message, but don't ask me to repeat last night's performance. It wouldn't do anything good, you know."

Karril's deep voice was unusually grave, his glance evasive, and to his astonishment the warrior knight realized that despite of the Iezu's benevolent reassurances Tarrant's old friend evidently shared his misgivings concerning their sexual encounter, a rather weird attitude for a being who had been feeding on human pleasure for centuries.

_He's hiding something,_ Damien wondered, but felt much too winded and befuddled for further inquiries. Somehow last night had indeed provided him with a sense of closure, and maybe Karril was right and it was due time to move on. Presumably nothing his fate had in store for him would come even remotely close to the feelings he still harboured for Gerald or his religious vocation, but many hospitals would welcome an ex-sorcerer with a fair amount of healing skills with open arms. The Neocount of Merentha, Jaggonath's most prestigious hospital and recently renamed in honour of Andrys Tarrant, the revered slayer of the Prince of Jahanna, was currently running an advertising campaign in the Jaggonath Times, wooing healers and nurses in order to cope with the sudden inaccessibility of the fae, and perhaps it wasn't such a bad idea after all to quit hitting the bloody booze and apply for a job after a few hours of sleep and some necessary improvements on his appearance. Without much further ado Vryce bid the God of Pleasure farewell, utterly failing to register the look of relief on the Iezu's face, and headed for his lodgings.

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After Vryce had left Karril returned to Gerald's quarters. When he had checked on the adept about an hour ago Gerald had still slept like a log, his relaxed face graced with a slight smile. _No wonder the way he spent last night_, Karril thought with a lecherous grin. His friends' amazing stamina and enthusiasm hadn't needed any artificial encouragement on his part, and to the Iezu's astonishment even the ever so controlled adept hadn't minded vocalizing that he was having a good time in Vryce's arms, the racket the two lovebirds produced audible in the better part of the temple and adding some extra spice to the usual orgy. If the respectable citizens of Jaggonath had been able to overhear that stunning exertion of vocal cords Karril didn't doubt that whole throngs of new followers would have been flocking to his temple by now. So much for Gerald's pretence of just doing his duty, and Karril had no qualms whatsoever of rubbing that in till Doomsday. Chuckling with glee the God of Pleasure knocked at the door and entered.

The living room and Gerald's adjacent bedroom were empty, the big bed a tangled mess of pillows, quilts and crumpled silk sheets and obviously left in a hurry by the usually so neat adept. Karril placed a twin of the small jar containing a cooling ointment which he had smuggled into a pocket of Vryce's coat on the nightstand and had just made himself comfortable in a convenient armchair when a pitiful gagging came from the bathroom.

Karril's mirth evaporated into thin air, and he pricked up his ears, more than slightly worried. "Gerald? Are you all right?"

An ominous silence was the only answer, and the God of Pleasure jumped to his feet and rushed to the door, poised to come to his friend's aid, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a strangled, but nonetheless rather menacing voice. "Don't you dare to come in and pester me, Karril, or I'll…"

Whatever niceties the adept had had in mind were choked off by a renewed bout of retching, and the Iezu winced in sympathy. Gerald had been feeling poorly for months now, and very likely last night's exhausting adventures with the priest had simply proved too much for him. Karril sighed and sat down again, trying to exercise himself in patience, a feat which doubtlessly came in handy if one had the misfortune to befriend a creature as complicated and arrogant as the former Hunter, but failed miserably, and he fidgeted restlessly on his seat until the bathroom door opened at long last.

The Iezu blinked, less shocked at the quite alluring sight of Gerald Hawthorne in his birthday suit than by the living proof that the phrase 'turning faintly green' was not just a metaphor of speech. The smooth skin of Gerald's face had indeed acquired a ghastly green hue, and he looked as if he had just been dragged back from hell for a second time, presumably even worse than on the previous occasion which Karril remembered much more clearly than he would have preferred to.

The adept staggered to his bed and flung himself on the mattress, pulling one of the quilts over his head with a faint moan. "Leave me alone! Just get lost and leave me alone, will you?"

The hoarse voice carried a distinctive tone of command despite Gerald's obvious discomfort, but for once the God of Pleasure had no intention of relenting to his friend's quirks. Remembering stories of humans choking on their own vomit while asleep or unconscious there was no way in hell he would leave Hawthorne to his own devices in his current state. "Just cut down on your stupid pride, my friend, and let me help you. We've known each other for a long time now, and you know that it's no big deal for me to send you some pleasant illusions until you've recovered."

The comforter was tossed back with a vengeance, revealing a still deathly pale face sporting a withering glower. "In this case you should better be prepared to cancel your appointments for the next nine months, Karril", the adept snapped viciously, but cut himself off when all speech deserted him and dropped his head back onto his pillow, a shaky hand pressed to his lips.

Karril opened his mouth, but thought better of it and closed it again without uttering so much as a single syllable. Although he had perfected the art of flawlessly mimicking behaviour and appearance of mere mortals centuries ago the arcane intricacies of human reproduction were still a mystery to him, but Gerald's snarky allusion to '_nine months'_ rang a bell with him so ominous that it would have had the Iezu in a cold sweat if he had possessed some perspiratory glands in the first place.

Although no expert in procreation and its jarring side-effects Karril had witnessed presumably hundreds of his followers overdoing on drugs and wine during his long existence as a self-installed deity, and relying on his experience he didn't doubt for a moment that the circumstances called for a jug of water, some towels and a clean basin.

Returning with the required items plus a stomach-settling herb infusion and some slices of dry bread the Iezu found the adept curled up on his side, breathing flatly and still white as a sheet, and a crushing wave of worry swept over him, tempting him against his better judgement to place the tray on the nightstand and rest a hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "Gerald, are you sure?" he inquired gently. "You might have just caught a nasty bug, you know."

Hawthorne flinched, shaking off the offending touch with a shrug. "More likely I'm suffering from an allergic reaction to a certain meddling Iezu! Of course I'm sure, Karril. I've already told you once before that I _made_ sure of it. You might better get it into your thick head that the only thing I've '_caught'_ is a nice little reminder of last night already as annoying as our friend Vryce, doubtlessly a regrettable genetic disposition. But I am loath to admit", Gerald continued with a frown, "that I have somehow miscalculated the impact of the hormones on a male body. I hadn't expected any adverse effects to occur within a week or two. And now that I've satisfied your curiosity just get off my back and be gone!"

The God of Pleasure acquiesced without protest and vanished on the spot, but never actually left the adept's bedroom, hovering in the ether and ogling his ailing friend like a mother hen until Gerald was fast asleep. Sighing he reverted to his illusionary human form, stroked some damp strands of black hair from the sweaty face, pulled up the coverlets and watched over his friend's uneasy sleep.

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Author's note 3: Well, asking a few female friends of mine I was told that one of them didn't suffer from morning sickness at all, one didn't have those telling symptoms until she was several weeks along and one literally started vomiting the morning after conception. Taking into consideration that Gerald's body isn't quite adjusting to the unaccustomed female hormones anyway it's hopefully not too implausible that the poor sod has his stubborn head over a basin so soon. By the way, that's the only cliché I'm going to employ, so no mood swings and so on. Gerald with mood swings is a thought too frightening to behold, lol!


	8. Chapter 8

**The Wrath of the Banshee **

Warnings: see quote ;-) (I don't doubt that Gerald Tarrant would definitely agree with Princess Di...) Honestly, folks, this is your last chance to hop off the train if you get the creeps at men having children or somebody giving birth in general (well, this chapter is still rather harmless, but yet…). I tried to write this as delicately and with as much respect for the characters as possible, I really did, so please don't fly off the handle. Flames will just be used to light a fire in my fireplace, so don't bother...;-)

Author's note: Although I did indeed use Karril for comic relief I'd like to state that I'm not trying to pick at the poor bloke in his chapter. In fact I agree with those of you who think that the God of Pleasure is very, very fond of Gerald Tarrant, something that will be dealt with later in the story, although in my opinion he's got no chance in hell of his feeling being reciprocated. In a way Karril's doomed attempts to see his friend through childbirth remind me of myself and how I would behave if I were in his shoes. Panicking, helpless and scared out of one's wits I suppose almost everybody would fall back on phrases like 'just breathe through it' and so on, and those well-meaning efforts often don't get a very warm welcome if the receiving part is just having a hard time. One of my friends is still rather embarrassed at continuously cursing her husband, the staff of the hospital and the whole world during the last stages of labour. So Gerald should be excused for throwing a tantrum and swearing like a trooper…

Ooooooooooooooooooooooo

If men had to have babies, they would only ever have one each… (Princess Diana)

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**_Karril's temple, December_**

_Ow! _To his dismay Gerald found himself sitting bolt upright in his bed in the middle of the night, gasping for air and wondering what on Earth and Erna had hit him. A nagging backache had plagued him since the day before, but that annoying vexation wasn't fit to hold a candle to the rather unsettling bout of pain which had just dragged him from his pleasant dreams. Fortunately it faded into non-existence quickly, and the adept dozed off with a mental shrug, just to be woken up in the same unpleasant manner a few minutes later. After several repetitions of that jarring experience and a fair amount of tossing and turning on crumpled silk sheets Hawthorne thought better off another fruitless attempt at returning to the realms of sleep, got up with some effort and walked over to his living room.

His movements weren't as graceful as they used to be, but thank goodness he still actually walked instead of waddling like a duck, although without a shadow of doubt the prospects of maintaining a halfway normal gait were but poor if his girth kept increasing at the same rate. Suppressing a disgusted grimace Gerald started to pace and tried to analyze what the heck was going on inside his body, by no means a small task if one was half-dazed with sleep deprivation, short of breath and feeling more than a tad apprehensive.

Even with the aid of Karril's droughts and the illusions the God of Pleasure had sent him when he had been close to despair the first four months had been a veritable nightmare, and alternating between giving in to his constant nausea and dozing listlessly on his bed, his overstrained male body which had never been supposed to carry a child in the first place failing him for the third time in his long existence, Gerald had pondered more than once to terminate his condition before the situation got out of control completely. To his relief the worst had been over when he had been about 16 weeks along, the cruel ache in his abdomen fading to a tolerable level and the incessant vomiting reduced to once or twice a day, an undeniable progress which had made life a lot easier.

Nonetheless the pregnancy had taken a terrible toll on him, and for weeks now Gerald had painstakingly avoided looking into a mirror, dreading the sight of his haggard face and his emaciated body. If he hadn't felt so outright awful he might have been able to laugh at the bitter irony that in stark contrast to the old tales from Earth mirrors had been perfectly fine in his undead state while his mortal self was currently shunning them out of sheer self-protection.

_You vain bastard!_ Gerald thought self-deprecatingly, and remembering how he had battled a sadistic Iezu, hordes of demons and a full-fledged crusade without so much as a flinch, not to mention surviving getting roasted alive, or what had counted for alive in his former state, for a madwoman's pleasure and several other, equally unpleasant misfortunes, he forced himself to return to his bedroom and face the enemy.

Albeit having prepared himself for the worst the adept winced, shocked at the sight of his skinny frame and bony face dominated by huge dark eyes, eyes which represented windows to a soul which had witnessed centuries of atrocities and the terrors of hell but were notwithstanding wide with unveiled anxiety. Struck with the uncanny impression that his flesh seemingly had melted away everywhere on his body just to gather at his midriff, his body desperately struggling to sustain the frail life growing inside him by draining him of his vital energy, Gerald felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

Just seven months along now it should have been much to early to go into labour, but Hawthorne had been suspecting for quite a while now that he presumably wouldn't be able to carry out his son up to the normal date of delivery, maybe no small mercy if one considered that his body and therefore his pelvis was still essentially male. Although the impact of the abominable visions had faded over the last year he still remembered how he had screamed in Vryce's arms like a man skinned alive, not exactly an encouragement, as far as he was concerned. But come what may the child's well-being was much more important than his own, and being born so many weeks prior to the due date his son would have to fight for his tiny life from the beginning.

_Dear God, I might have been a pain in your neck for a long time, _the adept pleaded, fraught with worry,_ and if I have to pay for my deeds so be it, but please don't take it out on an innocent child. _In the next instance he all at once remembered his own callous statement '_there are no innocents'_, and he shuddered.

Despite those disturbing reminiscences and his growing apprehension Gerald smiled faintly when he realized that his hands had strayed downwards on their own account, resting tenderly on his rounding abdomen. "Just hang on for a while, little one", he murmured gently, "you don't have to be in a hurry." Memorizing Karril's thunderstruck face when the God of Pleasure had taken him completely by surprise with one of his infamous unheralded appearances and had found him talking peacefully to his own belly Hawthorne's smile widened.

What had started as a deal with God had evolved into something altogether different over the last months, and Gerald couldn't help but marvelling at the almost _maternal_ feelings which had been evolving inside him since the unforgettable day he had been able to feel his son moving for the first time. Those first faint flutters had come as a shock, and memories of days long gone by which had been buried under layers of corruption beyond human reckoning had finally resurfaced and had shaken him to the core.

A haunting image of his beautiful wife formed before his inner eye, pregnant with their first child, his heir, and suddenly he remembered the day as if it had been yesterday and not thousand years ago. Almea had been sitting in her favourite armchair near the window, the piece of embroidery on her lap completely forgotten, her hands caressing her belly just the way he was doing now. When he had entered the room the breath had hitched in his throat at the mere sight of her, the reddish golden hair a flaming, sunlit halo around her sweet, heart-shaped face, her soft brown eyes shining with her love for him and a rosy glow radiating from her that made his heart stutter in his chest. Suddenly her eyes had widened, and her blissful smile had taken his breath away. "Gerald, quickly, come over here. Can you feel it?"

His trembling fingers on her abdomen he had indeed been able to feel the faint movements and bursting with pride he had been overcome by an unaccustomed bout of sentimentality and had hidden his moist eyes at his wife's shoulder. They hadn't moved for a long time that blessed afternoon, as close in body and spirit as two people could possibly be and gazing into the dying sun without uttering so much as a single word, just bathing in each other's presence and the sweet promise of the future.

Rudely dragged from his bittersweet memories by a renewed spasm Gerald sat down abruptly on his bed and cursed through gritted teeth until the pain subsided and he was able to catch his breath again. _Damn!_ Although never applied by him leading an army supplied one with the most colourful metaphors imaginable, and even the foul-mouthed priest would have blanched with envy if Gerald had ever stooped low enough to put some of them into proper use. Unfortunately the adept harboured the strong suspicion that he would be sorely tempted to utilize the better part of his vast repertoire for the first time in more than nine-hundred years before the day was over.

His thoughts returning to his absent lover Gerald sighed wistfully. Vryce's comforting presence and undeniable healing skills would have certainly been very much appreciated in these times of trouble, but that was only half the truth. In fact he cared about that cussing, blunt, courageous Knight of the Flame, cared about him more than he would ever admit to anybody, including Vryce. The warrior knight had torn the sheltering veils of his hellish trappings and had somehow made it through to the vulnerable human soul trapped in an existence so monstrous it defied description, rekindling the dying spark of his humanity to a blazing flame, and for that alone Gerald would be grateful up to his dying day. And unquestionably he had wanted the priest, had desired him with a hunger he had never felt before, not even in the faraway days of his youth.

Evidently watching him fretting in front of a mirror before their 'date' at Karril's temple had overstretched the Iezu's ability to exercise restraint, but enduring the meaningful winks and lewd comments had been worth it when he had drunk in Damien's lust like a seasoned wine, shivering with ecstasy as if he were still gorging himself on the fear and blood of his delicate prey. Feeling the priest arching and shaking under his hands, hearing his moans and desperate pleads had added to his own pleasure until he had feared his heart might fail him one time too many. Loosing control could be pleasant, after all, if savoured in small, measured doses.

000000000000000000000000

Four hours later Gerald was still pacing his living room, scribbling short notes concerning the duration of the pains and the shortening intervals when he wasn't reduced to a panting bundle of misery bracing himself against whatever piece of furniture available for support. Any hopes of a false alarm had been crushed when the detestable cramps he still grudgingly refused to identify as 'contractions' were getting longer and more painful, a jarring proof that their son had doubtlessly inherited Vryce's impatience.

Hawthorne had just pulled some of his weighty ancient volumes on childbirth from the shelves for reference when a renewed spasm hit him out of the blue, spreading from his back through his intestines with a vengeance. Not giving a damn for the venerable editions' welfare the adept dropped the books and swayed on his feet while a brass candle holder, hit by a veritable avalanche of not paper, toppled to the floor with a resounding 'clunk', followed by the hourglass and Gerald's leather-bound notebook when its owner doubled up over the table with a strangled moan.

The first thing the former Hunter noticed when the pain had faded eventually was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Gerald, what's wrong with you?"

_Oh, no…_ To his everlasting misfortune the racket had evidently alerted Karril, an annoying development he could have done very well without for the time being. Still bent over the table in a rather humiliating position Gerald wasn't able to suppress a sudden flash of irritation. "What does it look like?" he snapped at his old friend. "Maybe I've just made up my mind to rearrange the furniture in the small hours of the morning. For heavens sake, Karril, just put on your thinking cap and make an educated guess for a change!"

A drawn out silence followed, granting Gerald some precious time to straighten his aching back and get his bearings again. "You mean _that_?" the Iezu blurted out at long last, his deep voice unusually frightened. "Are you sure? As far as I can remember I was supposed to cancel my appointments for nine months, not seven."

Hawthorne drew a deep breath and started counting from ten on backwards, but it didn't help to cool down his flaring temper. If the damn Iezu asked him once again whether he was _sure_ the demon would be in for a nasty surprise. "How observant, Karril", the adept replied sarcastically. "Remind me to submit a schedule if I should be sufficiently insane to try this again. Not that this is ever going to happen, if I'm having my way."

That stilled the God of Pleasure's tongue for a while, but being led back and forth his living room by a very nervous Karril like a horse coming down with colic didn't improve Gerald's testy mood in the least, not to mention that his weary legs were slowly but surely threatening to give out under him from sheer fatigue.

Late in the morning Hawthorne wasn't able to keep on his feet any longer despite his best intentions and Karril's steadying arm around his waist, but knowing better than to give in to his bone-deep exhaustion and lay down on his bed which looked like heaven on earth for him he opted for a warm bath instead. If he was lucky the hot water would take away some of the pressure on his strained back and would help him to unwind and relax his muscles, a feat he found increasingly difficult as the day progressed. Sighing with relief the adept abandoned himself to the blessed hot fluid and leaned back, resting his head on a folded towel.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 

"Can I get you anything, my friend? A glass of water, maybe?"

Karril's voice was gentle, almost tender, but in Gerald's current state it was the most grating sound imaginable. "Not now, Karril", he forced through gritted teeth. "Just. Shut. Up."

The adept was still trying to catch his breath when a wet piece of cloth hit his face, adding a further layer of moisture to a pale face already abundantly beaded with a mixture of sweat and steam from the bath water he had been soaking in for what felt like hours on end now, and he blinked his eyes open with a start, just to come face to face with a fretting Iezu. Gerald counted his blessings that his hands were still clutching the rim of the bathtub in a death grip, because otherwise he might have succumbed to the temptation of closing his fingers around a certain chubby neck in a desperate attempt to rid himself of that wretched pest in the guise of a man.

"Have you lost your, wits, Karril?" Hawthorne inquired furiously. The damned Iezu had been hovering over him all day now like an eagle protecting her offspring and slowly but surely he was at the end of his tether. "If you are determined to drive me crazy you are well on track. Consider that a fair warning."

"Maybe you should stop ranting and concentrate on your breathing instead, Gerald", the God of Pleasure replied, sporting a know-it-all mien which added even more fuel to the fire of the adept's wrath. "A trustworthy midwife told me that taking deep breaths makes the pain more bearable."

'_Taking deep breaths?'_ That was the final straw, and Gerald's simmering wrath erupted like Mount Shaitan at its worst. Jumping to his feet was out of the question in his condition, but somehow he managed to get up with astounding agility, utterly oblivious to the complete absence of clothes on his body or the droplets of water splashing all over the bathroom. "I _am_ fucking breathing, you idiot!" the adept screamed at the top of his lungs. "That's all I've been doing for hours now. Breathing, hurting like hell and listening to your damned bullshit! That does it! I don't give a fuck whether you go for a walk or participate in one of your despicable orgies, but PISS OFF!"

Karril stared at him wide-eyed, a look of stark terror on his face, and suddenly Gerald regretted yelling at his old friend like a demented banshee, but before he could gather his wits the God of Pleasure was gone.

With a heartfelt sigh Gerald sat down again and closed his burning eyes. The by now slightly addled rational part of his brain piped up rather insistently, reminding him that Karril had just meant well, had wanted to help him through this abominable ordeal in his own awkward way as best as he could, and coming to his senses the adept had to admit that only the Lord knew what would have happened to him during the last seven months without Karril's potions and his unwavering friendship. The Iezu had offered him a sanctuary in his temple, had even washed him and held the damned basin for him when he had been too sick to stand, and lashing out at his old friend when his endurance was starting to wane had been unfair in the extreme. Ultimately it wasn't Karril's fault that the deal he had struck with the God of his faith and which had sounded a fair bargain once might eventually prove a bigger bite than he could actually chew. One life given for so many taken… A cold shiver ran down Gerald's spine, and he shuddered involuntarily.

A muffled rumbling, faint outcries and the sound of running feet from above stopped Hawthorne's musings, and he pricked up his ears. What the heck was going on in Karril's temple? Cursing his weakness and the loss of the fae Gerald laboriously scrambled from the bathtub and was just about wrapping himself in his bathrobe when the door burst open, revealing one of Karril's young priestesses. The blue eyes of the girl who was very likely still in her late teens were dazed with unbridled panic, her pretty face deathly pale."The warriors of the One God... they're attacking the temple", the priestess panted, almost sobbing with dread. "We have barricaded the doors, but that won't keep them out for long, and they will hand us over to the inquisition or kill us right on the spot. Oh, Mer Hawthorne, what are we going to do?"

The adept choked off a vicious curse. Crappy bad timing, indeed! And where was the God of Pleasure when he was needed? He put his hands of the young girl's shoulder and shook her gently. "What's your name, child?"

"Myra."

Pushing down his own fears Gerald forced the corners of his mouth upwards, hoping against hope that he bore no resemblance to the grinning skull of the grim reaper. "Pretty name. Listen, Myra, lamenting won't help either of us. Calm down and help me get dressed, will you?"

His efforts were rewarded with a shaky smile and a nod, and mollified by the adept's composed voice Myra recovered sufficiently to assist him in putting on a pair of trousers, a tunic and a warm winter waistcoat, followed by his boots. Gerald had just wrapped himself into his cloak, praying that they weren't running out of time to escape this veritable deathtrap, when a wave of pain crashed down on him worse than anything he had previously experienced. His knees gave in, and he blindly groped for the table, the girl, just anything to stay on his feet, but the floor rapidly rose to meet him, accompanied by a deafening blast which shook the temple in its foundations. Small hands were on his back, pushing him under the massive alteroak table, and through his tears of agony the adept was forced to watch helplessly as a part of the ceiling collapsed, the heavy beam killing the unfortunate priestess on the spot. The cold sweat on his face mixing with the woman's blood and parts of her brain tissue Gerald could but stare in wide-eyed horror as a second and then a third beam were sagging threateningly. _I'm so sorry, little one_ was his last thought before darkness claimed him.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooo

Sorry for the evil cliffhanger, but the next chapter is going to switch to Damien's story again, so I had to make a cut here. It's almost finished, so hopefully you won't have to wait for a long time.


	9. Chapter 9

**The road to hell**

Warnings: mentioning of alcohol abuse (of course Damien doesn't drink on duty) and violence

Author's note 1: Sorry if you are waiting for some information on what's going on in Karril's temple, but this chapter is Damien's… Please, Black Dragon's Ghost, don't burst into flames! I try to do my best. This chapter won't be proof read for 20 times at the very least as I usually do, but posted a.s.a.p, so please forgive my mistakes.

Author's note 2: I don't really know how far the Worldsend Mountains are from Jaggonath, but for reasons to be revealed later I took the liberty to place them about a four-hour ride away. I might be a semi-sadistic bitch, but having poor Gerald on horseback for longer than two hours is more than I can stand (and definitely more than _he_ can stand, I'm afraid).

Author's note 3: I honestly don't have any idea how one addresses a monk in English. Is it 'Father' (well, Gabriel is the prior of his cloister) or just 'Brother'? Help would be appreciated. If anybody can provide me with a nickname for a fanatic, crazy mercenary (the nickname showing that the man is a psychopathic killer) I'd go over the top with joy!

Author's note 4: Obviously I borrowed the 'Sun' from the British press ;-)

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All religions are founded on the fears of the many and the cleverness of the few (Stendhal).

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Jaggonath, same day

Damien left the 'Neocount of Merentha' in a daze, his mind still reeling with the horrid images of the pagan victims who had somehow managed to survive the latest 'purging' by a hair's breadth and had been admitted to his hospital a few hours ago. Small, innocent children with deep, bleeding gashes had been wailing for their slaughtered mothers and women had grieved for honest, hardworking husbands who had been mercilessly burned to ashes in a frenzy of religious bigotry, and Damien couldn't help but despairing at the undeniable fact that the Church he had once cherished with all his heart was turning rapidly into an obscene nightmare.

The successful crusade against the Forbidden Forest and the Hunter had brought the Church of Unification thousands of new followers, but unfortunately the development hadn't stopped there, the ultra conservative wing gaining more power each day. Horrendous atrocities at the hands of the faithful had been committed for several months now; adepts had been put to the torch, pagan temples plundered and burned and the worshippers driven out of town if there were lucky. More often than not their fate had been much worse.

Decent citizens whose only mistake was to worship pagan gods were fleeing the centres of faith, and open uproar was looming. There were even rumours concerning a third crusade, targeting the second sentient species on their wondrous planet, the rakh, an outrageous plan which, if carried out, would certainly destroy every possibility of peace for centuries, and a shiver was running down Damien's spine when he thought of all those innocent souls suffering in a pointless religious war.

Briefly he wondered what Gerald would make of this terrible aberration of the Church of Unification. If there was one man on the whole vulking planet Damien considered capable of putting an end to this madness it was Gerald Tarrant, the very human being who had been disgraced and damned to hell by his own ungrateful creation, punished for the 'crime' of his adeptitude, a genetic mutation and therefore completely out of his control. There was no limit to people's stupidity, Damien mused.

"Why don't they ever listen?" Gerald had asked him once (WTNF, page 187), a mixture of contempt and resignation clearly audible in his smooth voice. Good question by the most brilliant brain he had ever met. Why, indeed?

Damien was well aware that the reasons for human behaviour were never simple, but it was an undeniable fact that men and women feared what they didn't understand. The man on the street wasn't the one to be blamed for it; he usually believed in the half-truths or outright lies kindly provided by their rulers instead of thinking things over and forming his own opinion on the matter, and if he was 'informed' that the last earthquake, tsunami, plague, famine or whatever incident causing widespread grief was due to some sinister manipulations of the pagan multitudes or a loathed adept they willingly participated in any kind of carnage considered necessary to root out evil. Unfortunately very often the helpless and innocent were at the receiving end of the matter while the truly nasty humans or demons usually got away.

Damien remembered one of the more amicable talks he had had with Gerald on board the Golden Glory during the endless nights at sea, discussing the despicable witch hunts on their mother planet which had claimed hundred thousands of innocent victims who had been tortured until they 'confessed' and burned at the stake for crimes which had only taken place in their torturers' perverted imagination. Damien prayed each day that the Church which had once been his true vocation wouldn't follow that road to hell, but his hopes weren't high.

Straying from that rather disturbing topic their discussion had focussed on superstitious beliefs concerning nocturnal creatures on Earth, and Damien hadn't been able to suppress a grin then, sincerely doubting that some nasty smelling herb called _garlic_, a cross or some ordinary silver would have caused his undead companion so much as a hiccup. If he would have been able to imagine vulking Gerald Tarrant hiccupping, that is. And although the Hunter had perfected the seemingly impossible feat of shape shifting into an art form a weird flying mammal called _bat_ certainly hadn't been among his favourites, if Damien got the description correctly. The warrior knight smiled faintly, lost in his memories of the mesmerizing silver eyes sparkling sardonically and the amused smirk on Gerald's mouth during their conversation, but his good humour instantly faded into non-existence when he remembered that the classic mob on his threshold had gotten the better of his companion eventually.

_And there you go again_, Vryce thought exasperatedly, his lighter mood instantly replaced by the by now utterly familiar pang of pain and guilt. The devastating grief which had almost driven him over the edge when the shock induced numbness had at long last lifted a few days after Gerald's grisly death at the Keep had dulled to a hollow ache over the months, his job as a healer just partly alleviating the terrible emptiness inside him, the gaping abyss left bleeding when something vital had been ripped out of him before it had a chance to bloom.

On top of his misfortune the warrior knight had been forced to lay rather low for the last months, practising under the moniker of 'Gerald Faraday'. Even one and a half years after the actual events people hadn't stopped gossiping about the accursed Hunter's demise, embellishing their tales until they resembled one of the ancient fairy tales still told at the fireside. To Vryce's dismay unsettling rumours had turned up concerning a certain Knight of the Flame who had willingly betrayed his order and his faith to ally with the Lord of the Forest, and in a rare case of unity public opinion agreed on the fact that it was quite a pity the Inquisition hadn't been able to capture the treacherous priest yet. If that widely feared institution, founded roundabout three months after the triumphant return of the victorious crusaders, ever got their hands on the man called Damien Kilcannon Vryce he would doubtlessly be in for an insistent and rather painful interrogation.

Damien's life would have been crushingly lonely if he hadn't found an unexpected friend in old Father Gabriel, the prior of an ancient cloister nestling at the foothills of the Worldsend Mountains. The community was but small, just twelve elderly men living a harsh, austere life on prayer, the few vegetables which they could wrest from the barren ground and the odd charitable donation, and the monks barely survived from day to day, living hand-to-mouth, while the pious souls determined to serve the Church of Unification were drawn to the much more fashionable white and golden armour of the Knights of the Flame.

In spite of the arduous ride on horseback Father Gabriel visited the hospital each Friday, combining the collection of alms which would see the monks through the following week with the more philantrophical occupation of praying with the sick believers or just sitting at the bedside of any desperate soul in need of some consolation. Naturally the old monk had talked to the healer in charge as well on each occasion, and he and Damien had instantly been drawn to each other, but the warrior knight had forced himself to stay on the alert despite his sympathy for the easy-going, white-haired old monk.

A vicious article in the 'Sun', one of the worst examples of the infamous yellow press found on the whole continent and usually dripping with gore and smut, had contained a rather correct description of himself, and although his hair was much longer now, swept back into a ponytail as greying as his short beard, and his former bulk had been wasted away by lack of appetite letting his guard down and trusting the wrong person could very well be the last mistake he ever made in his life. Being the centre of attention in a propaganda trial after having been tortured half to death or just disappearing from the scene, done away with by a paid assassin, wasn't on his agenda for the near future.

Maybe Damien should have taken into account that the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and he still vividly remembered the day when the bubble had finally burst approximately three months after the regrettable incidents at Karril's temple. What was supposed to be a fulfilling vocation had turned into a veritable nightmare that day when a broken axle had caused a heavy haulage carriage to keel over, burying a group of four primary school pupils under its bulk, and despite their best efforts they had just managed to save two of the unfortunate children. For the umpteenth time since working as a healer Damien had cursed his helplessness and the loss of the fae which had allowed him to even heal a failing heart without so much as shedding a single drop of blood, but as usual the worst had been dealing with the bereaved parents. The warrior knight knew perfectly well what it was like to loose a loved one to the grim reaper, and barely able to retain his own composure he had been insanely grateful of Father Gabriel's support and calming presence.

When his shift had ended Damien had collapsed on the bunk usually reserved for the healer on standby, wanting nothing more than to rush home, if a decrepit single room without any decoration or personal belongings other than his clothes and his weapons could be called a home at all, and knock back the first drink of the day, but too winded and devastated for the time being to get up. Up to that point he hadn't quite managed quitting, and he had noticed that his hands had started shaking, if from pure exhaustion after eight hours of taxing and utterly depressing work or from sheer lack of alcohol he hadn't dared to contemplate.

With a sigh the warrior knight had flung an arm over his face and had dozed off for a few minutes, but had come around instantly at the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. "Damien?"

Vryce had blinked his eyes open, still dazed from his short nap. "Just a moment, Father", he had yawned, "I'm with you in a minute." Then realization had set in, and he had stared at the old monk in wide-eyed horror. Shit!

To Damien's astonishment Father Gabriel had just winked at him mischievously, his wise, blue eyes amazingly clear and bright in the wrinkled face, and had invited him to a drink. Tolerating a boozing, cheerful crowd probably warming up some tales about the Hunter's demise plainly out of the question for the former priest the two men had made themselves comfortable in Damien's room, equipped with a few bottles of ale and some sandwiches.

Still horrified at his lapse of control and the possible consequences Damien had frantically tried to think of a way to talk himself out of this mess at first, maybe just profess to have misheard in his drowsy state, but feeling the old monk's gaze locked on him without a whiff of repugnance he had started telling his weird story, his voice low and choked with emotion and his hands shaking like leaves in the wind, but leaving out nothing but his true feelings for Gerald and the meeting with the youth at Black Ridge Pass. Risking his own life was one thing, but he simply hadn't been willing to endanger the man who might have been Gerald Tarrant in another life, another time.

It had hurt to relive everything again, and some tears had been running down his cheeks, but once he had started Damien hadn't been able to still his tongue anymore than he would have managed to stop breathing and had poured his very heart into his tale. He had wanted Gabriel to understand, to understand that there had been more to Gerald than his Hunter persona, his frail human soul who could still be salvaged though it had been mutilated by a thousand years of torture and murder while trapped in a devilish compact which had been sealed with the blood of his own family and the ransoming of his humanity, cutting him off from any possibility to show even a shred of mercy. No soul, not even an indomitable, proud and stubborn soul as Gerald Tarrant's had undoubtedly been, could have come out of that unscathed, but after Mount Shaitan there had been at least the possibility of redemption.

When Vryce had finally stopped silence had descended on them, dragging on until the warrior knight had started fidgeting uncomfortably on his seat. Whatever sympathy Gabriel might feel for him the former priest had allied with evil incarnate, defying his church and the patriarch, and men had been excommunicated and incarcerated over the last few months for a lot less grievous offences. Damien had expected appalled revulsion, wrath and accusations, but he hadn't been in the least prepared for the one sentence which had shaken him to his core. "You still love him, don't you?"

Damien had blinked, utterly taken aback by the unexpected question. _So much for pulling the wool over Gabriel's eyes_, he had thought with an inward sigh. _Do I have 'Damien Kilcannon Vryce loves vulking Gerald Tarrant'_ written all over my face? His eyesight blurring again and almost choking on his grief the warrior knight had but managed one single word. "Yes."

Pulling himself together Damien had raised his head to face Father Gabriel, waiting for the judgement to fall, but to his surprise the monk's eyes had been kind and understanding, though very sad, and when he had spoken his voice had been low and gentle. "Please don't fear me, Damien. Although I won't pretend that I approve of each and everyone of your deeds I will neither condemn you nor betray you to the authorities. _'The quality of the One God is mercy'_ the Prophet wrote a thousand years ago", the old monk had continued with a faint smile. "May the Lord forgive Gerald Tarrant for his crimes and cradle him gently in his arms, and may you find peace and happiness again. If you don't mind I would like to visit the cathedral now and pray for both of you. Will you join me?"

To his own astonishment Damien who had given churches a wide berth since Gerald's death had indeed accompanied the prior to Jaggonath's famous cathedral, and settling down in one of the pews and inhaling the air heavy with not incense, a smell so familiar that his heart had ached with longing, a strange feeling of peace had come over the warrior knight. After all it wasn't the Lord's fault when humankind went rampart and murdered and tortured in His holy name, and burying his head into his hands Damien had whispered a prayer for his friend's immortal soul.

In the wake of this catharsis life had become a bit easier, and with Father Gabriel's help Damien had been able to kick his annoying drinking habits and settle down slowly but surely into his new life. He had visited the prior once or twice when he had two days off and had even contemplated joining the friars, but Gabriel had talked him out of it. "Believe me, my friend", the old man had chuckled, "you aren't destined for the monastic life. I can't see where the wind will blow you, but hiding from the world behind convent walls is not your cup of tea."

Presumably Father Gabriel had been correct in this assumption, as usual, and if he hadn't known better Damien would have been tempted to assume that the old man had the Sight. But that wasn't the only riddle which his new friend was posing him. To Vryce's amazement Gabriel had taken it in his stride without so much as a blink that the Hunter and their venerated prophet had been two sides of the same coin, an appalling fact which had certainly caused the late patriarch more than a slight stomach ache. Not even the revelation that the Lord of the Forest had been identical with the first Neocount of Merentha and therefore related to his slayer, Andrys Tarrant, had resulted in more than a raised eyebrow, and sometimes the warrior knight wondered if the old monk didn't harbour his own secrets.

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Stepping into the street the icy wind dragged Damien out of his reminiscences, and he hurriedly closed the buttons of his winter coat. The snow on the far away tops of the Worldsend Mountains had visibly spread downwards, and winter was approaching with rapid strides. Bowing his head to avoid the gusts of wind Vryce very nearly bumped into a well known Iezu who had apparently been waiting for him at the hospital's staff entrance.

"Karril! How are you?"

Remembering his amorous adventures with the God of Pleasure Damien still cringed with embarrassment, but when he had a closer look at the Iezu's strained face there was no mistaking that Karril evidently was occupied with more urgent problems. In fact he looked pretty much like a frightened mother hen, stepping nervously from one foot to another. "Damien, it's Gerald", Tarrant's old friend blurted out. "He's going to roast me alive for telling you, but I fear he needs your help."

For a moment Vryce closed his eyes, desperately trying to process the mind-blowing revelation which had just been sprung upon him by means of a few random words. So the 'youth' on Black Ridge Pass hadn't played a cruel joke on him but had told the truth in his roundabout way, and the God of Pleasure presumably had been in on the bloody secret all along, deliberately brushing off Damien's frantic attempts at wheedling some information out of the damned bastard.

Bristling the warrior knight fought down the overpowering temptation to wring the Iezu's neck by a small margin, his anger somehow kept in check by an unveiled tenor of urgency in Karril's voice which made Damien's skin crawl. He still vividly remembered a small cave at the slopes of Mount Shaitan and the Iezu waking him up with nearly the same words when Gerald was about to die of heart failure. Gazing at the the God of Pleasure Damien realized that Karril shared his memories, and that he was desperately worried about their friend. Tarrant was certainly prone to drawing calamities like moths to the flame, and Vryce's heart crawled up his throat with dread. Into what kind of mess that vulking son of a bitch had gotten himself now? "Where is he? What's wrong with him?"

Horrifying scenarios rushed through Damien's brain ranging from killer diseases to compacts with whatever dark forces foolish enough to meddle with the former Hunter, failed attempts at shape shifting or suicidal sorcery beyond the powers of his imagination. Karril's scared face had done a more than adequate job in convincing him that Gerald wasn't just suffering from a bad cough and a sneeze.

"He's at my temple, Damien, and he is… well, sick, in a way..." Karril trailed off helplessly, looking plainly mortified.

"Sick?" Vryce repeated hoarsely. "What is it? His heart again? Will you tell me what's going on now, Karril, or do want me to shake the answers out of you?"

The Iezu winced, and the warrior knight got the impression that the God of Pleasure would have preferred vanishing into thin air instead of spilling the beans if the situation hadn't required an urgent intervention on his part. "I really think you'd rather see for yourself, Damien. If Gerald hadn't made himself abundantly clear that I wasn't supposed to interfere I would have sought you out months ago. I've tried to aid him as best as I could, priest, but now I'm at my wits end."

'_Months ago'?_ That piece of information wasn't quite destined to lighten the burden on Damien's heart, and he raked his hair in despair. Damn the Iezu in general and especially Karril with his ridiculous clinging to his vulking 'non-interference-policy'. He had been interfering for ages now, thank God; otherwise the Hunter would have been burned to cinders in the rising dawn on Mount Shaitan, just to mention one occasion.

"Damien, please believe me", Karril's pleading voice cut through the fog of worry clouding Vryce's mind, "I tried so hard to talk Gerald out of it, and when I realized that it was a waste of breath I practically begged him to tell you the truth at the very least, to ask for your compliance. I thought you deserved that much. But it was like talking to a bloody brick wall. You know him."

Yes, Damien knew Gerald Tarrant, or whatever his name was right now. Linked with the adept's soul for life he knew him more intimately than he had ever known another human being before, and that was quite enough to scare the living daylights out of him right now, but try as he might he couldn't make head or tail of Karril's hide and seek game, not to mention understanding what his '_compliance'_ might have to do with Gerald's mysterious sickness.

In the meantime Karril had quickened the pace considerably an had started tugging him along the street by his sleeve, and sensing the Iezu's misery and fear Damien had just thought better of lagging behind and wasting valuable time with fruitless discussions when the very air seemed to explode. A huge detonation shook the ground below their feet, and numerous glass panes exploded into a veritable shower of razor-sharp shards.

Damien Kilcannon Vryce had never seen an Iezu blanch before and hadn't thought it possible a minute ago, but Karril seemed close to keeling over on the spot with dread. Alarmed the former priest gripped his shoulder and shook him not too gently to get him out of his daze. "What's going on, damn it?"

Karril's eyes were wide and full of panic. "The Knights of the Flame, priest. They're storming my temple! Oh dear Mother..." The next instant he was gone, leaving behind a dumbstruck Damien Vryce.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Sword of God**

Warnings: as usual, violence, gore, minor character death

Author's note 1: Well, I don't know if anybody still reads this story except fellow author Black Dragon's Ghost, but if you do you might be pissed of at the manner I portrait Damien's reaction at the rather unexpected revelation he has to digest. But let's not forget that Gerald and Karril did indeed hoax him and that he doesn't know the background for Gerald's plotting and scheming. If I were Damien I would be damn livid with those two fellows, anyway, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that he's not exactly beside himself with joy. Just let him rant and rave. He will calm down, as usual...;-)

Author's note 2: I'm not very well at the moment, and I might be in for a stay at the hospital (big sigh!), so I don't know when I will be able to update my fics again. Don't worry, though: I never abandon a story, and if nothing terrible happens to me I WILL update a.s.a.p.

Author's note 3: Hope you enjoy the cameo of the black dragon, lovey...

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We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another (Jonathan Swift).

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Damien didn't even realize he was running until he started gasping for air, cursing the loss of his agility and speed due to the deplorable neglect of his body. The proud owner of a fine nose for lurking trouble since the faraway days of his youth he didn't miss that right now the very air stank of it, and his warrior instincts in better condition than his muscles and tendons he was very well aware that instead of wallowing in self-pity and hitting the damned booze like a madman for months on end he would have been better advised to prepare himself for combat. What kept him going was the frightful certainty that Gerald was in danger, that he needed him, and this time he wouldn't let his former companion face his fate alone. He would stay at his side and get him out of trouble, at whatever cost to himself. Better to die with honour than to choke on his guilt the way he had done during the last seventeen months.

When Vryce turned around the last corner and came in full view of Karril's temple, or what remained off it, he froze dead in his tracks, his shell-shocked mind simply refusing to process the visual input. That wasn't possible, mustn't be possible. As the Prophet had written in their holy scriptures the quality of the One God was mercy; the Lord simply couldn't be so cruel to spare his prophet from dying at the Keep just to let him perish in a vile attack wrought by those who had inherited the faith he had founded so many centuries ago.

Fragments of prayers formed on the warrior knights white lips, but he wasn't able to form a coherent thought, his heart and soul repeating one plea like a mantra destined to save him from insanity. _Please, God, protect him. Please..._

When the first shockwave had subsided and the cognitive performance of his brain had resumed the better part of its functions Vryce forced himself to assess the situation objectively, desperately pushing his feelings aside. About half of the forefront of Karril's temple was gone, blasted to pieces by the explosive device the mob had apparently used to storm the barricades hastily erected by the frightened worshippers and priests. About ten bodies mutilated beyond recognition were just hauled out of the building like cattle, presumably the unfortunately souls who had been close when the explosives detonated, and cheers erupted and fists were shaken when more humans were herded outside, the luckier ones of Karril's followers who had escaped the first violent attack.

"Bloody pagans!" "Heathens!" "Burn them!"

To Damien's appalled horror the crowd drawn to the scene by the commotion was increasing by the second, and their mood was by no means benevolent. The warrior knight couldn't help but noticing some drawn daggers and cudgels raised threateningly, and several citizens had actually picked up small stones. The three Knights of the Flame in their white-and-golden armour in charge of the attack kept themselves aloof from the tableau, but the bunch of drunk mercenaries who did the dirty work for them in God's hallowed name evidently gained a perverted pleasure from fuelling the people's blood thirst, and Damien didn't doubt that it wouldn't need much of an incentive anymore until the _'concerned citizens'_ would turn into a full-fledged lynch mob. Watching helplessly when one of the leering mercenaries pawed a weeping young priestess and several grim men approached to defile the corpses the warrior knight had to choke down the bile rising in his throat. Dear God in heaven, what had become of his faith?

And much more important: where the heck was Gerald? Despite Damien's firm resolve to refrain from letting his heart ruling his brain in times of danger his overheated imagination provided him with dreadful visions of a mangled corpse and the even worse scenario of Gerald dying right now by a merciless blade or trapped under heavy blocks of stone, sick and utterly helpless, calling his name. Heartrending images of himself failing his friend once more, letting him down in his hour of need as he had done before rushed through the warrior knight's mind, and he barely managed to stifle a groan of sheer despair.

Maybe Damien would have to relive horror incarnate again, a severed head and a pair of empty eyes staring at him in silent accusation, worse than each and every one of the nightmares the Hunter had implanted into his soul to harvest his fear. The former priest trembled. For his part Gerald could drive him up the wall for all eternity with his snappy acerbic remarks and his ridiculous vanity if he just managed to get out of this mess alive and kicking. _Cut the crap, Vryce!_ Damien admonished himself. _If you want to save the man you love you have to stop fretting and do something for a change. Letting your damn imagination run rampart and quaking in your boots won't exactly help Gerald, you foolish bastard!_

In the next instance two of the mercenaries left the remains of the temple, one carrying the gory remains of a girl in the robes of a priestess and his burly, one-eyed companion dragging a familiar slender figure outside by his long, black braid. The warrior knight had never met the man before, but he harboured no shadow of a doubt that Gerald's attacker was Douglas Summers himself, the leader of the mercenaries who had done his nom de guerre, Mad Dog, justice in Jaggonath already over the last months, a lamentable fact which would be readily testified by several terrified owners of inns and brothels. Styling himself as the Sword of God Summers was renowned for his visceral hatred of the pagan multitudes, and rumour had it that he had handed over his only son to be tried by the Inquisition a few months ago. Try as he might Vryce couldn't fathom why the Church of Unification stooped low enough to use scum like Summers and tolerate or even encourage the atrocities committed by him and his unscrupulous henchmen.

'_Bind evil to a greater purpose...' _Remembering the famous theorem of his church Vryce felt his blood run cold. If the new patriarch truly assumed that anything would alter this beast in the guise of a man he must have lost his sanity along with his common sense long ago.

Watching Gerald being ruthlessly manhandled through the rubble Damien fervently wished he could get his hands around that wretched killer's throat, but his rage was overlaid by a stultifying surge of apprehension. As far as he could tell the weakly moving adept was aware of his surroundings and the traces of blood on the pale face were not his own, but having witnessed the former Hunter fighting under attack like a wild uncat Damien was seriously concerned by his companion's unaccustomed passivity, and remembering Karril's unveiled fear and his ominous hints the warrior knight felt himself blanching with apprehension. How sick was Gerald?

Damien had to bite down a fierce growl when the adept was dragged to his knees to face the bloodthirsty crowd with a brutal yank to his braid, but when Gerald's hands involuntarily let go of the cloak he had been clutching tightly around him and one of the freezing gusts blew the garment open he stared in utter disbelief, literally unable to move a limb. A collective gasp raced through the stunned crowd like the last breath of a huge, monstrous creature, and the spectators' faces went slack with amazement and wonder.

By now Vryce suspected he was part of a weird mass hallucination staged by a certain desperate Iezu who had gone completely over the top in his urge to protect his followers. Alternatively he was either dreaming, caught in one of the Hunter's abominable nightmares created to strike delectable fear into his heart for a nice midnight dinner, or he had to face the truly daunting alternative that he had finally cracked up and was ready for the straight jacket. Whatever weird incidents had already come to pass on their unruly planet some indisputable constants fortunately still existed, for example that there _were_ some biological differences between the genders after all. Men were men and responsible for siring children while the womenfolk was burdened with the unpleasant task of bearing them as it had happened since the dawn of time. What he witnessed right now was completely, utterly impossible, but a creepy thought quickly anchored itself inside his mind and froze the marrow inside his bones: when had vulking Gerald Tarrant ever bowed down to the rules?

Blinking fiercely the warrior knight focussed his attention on Gerald again who looked like ten miles of bad road, pale and drawn and apparently no match for his assailant in his current condition. Damien Kilcannon Vryce the healer instantly started calculating: some women showed less than others, but if the adept indeed _had_ been a woman he would have considered him to be approximately seven months along under normal conditions. _Maybe 'normal' isn't quite the appropriate keyword now, Vryce,_ Damien mused and barely managed to refrain from bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter. A lot of things evidently had changed, but there was no denying that _normality_ still shunned Gerald Tarrant and was in all probability sobbing in her secret hideaway at the very moment

Damien's untimely mirth abruptly deserted him when he all at once remembered the events which had taken place at Karril's damned temple roundabout seven months ago, and joining the dots he very nearly fainted on the spot. The overwhelming urge to participate in an act of sexual congress with the God of Pleasure acting the Hunter for him, his surprise when Karril had chosen the youth's guise instead, the eerie, temporary reactivation of the bond which should have been impossible to achieve for everybody but Gerald Tarrant himself and his dazed wondering about 'Karril's' anatomy almost instantly quenched by an onslaught of desire and sheer carnal lust so irresistible that it had nearly driven him over the edge with naked want. Soft, olive coloured skin, a black torrent of silken hair flowing over their writhing bodies and equally black eyes glazed over with pleasure, moans and soft whimpers and a wicked tongue licking at the scratches on his shoulders and the bite mark at his neck with a throaty, hungry moan that had set his nerves on fire.

Oh merciful God! As much as he would have preferred the contrary he was neither dreaming nor hallucinating, and now everything made sense: Karril's strange behaviour, his ominous hints and Gerald's mysterious 'sickness', just everything. Whatever crazy plan Tarrant's absolutely unscrupulous brain had hatched he had obviously had no qualms about ruthlessly using him again for his own purposes, and Damien felt sick to the very bone, wondering how on Earth and Erna he could ever have been stupid enough to imagine the former Hunter giving a damn for him. Gerald hadn't changed at all; the beautiful exterior still contained a soul as cold and merciless as a winter night, the icy precision of that brilliant brain not marred by human weaknesses like friendship or love.

For a moment Damien was blinded by a bout of wild rage so fierce that it threatened to break the last barriers of his self control. _Bastard! You vulking manipulative bastard! How could you do this to me? You harped on my feelings, used my affection! God damn you to the blackest pit of hell where you belong!_

The torrent of the scalding river of his fury evidently was sufficiently intense to lap at the fringes of Gerald's mind, because the adept blinked dazedly and turned his head, looking straight into his eyes. When their gazes met the bleak stare into nothingness changed to an expression of stark relief, but in the next instant his haggard features went absolutely blank again, revealing not the barest hint of emotions. The black eyes were blazing with defiance however, staring down the enthralled crowd with a familiar arrogance and disdain only Tarrant could muster, the only sign of life in a visage resembling a marble statue, and if Damien had still harboured any doubts concerning the 'youth's' identity they would have dissolved at that very moment.

Statues, whether made of marble or other materials, don't groan or move on their own account though, and in spite of his anger Damien was horrified when Gerald suddenly bent forwards with an agonized moan, violently ripping his dishevelled braid from the mercenary's grip. Obviously he was so lost in pain that he was beyond caring about loosing some strands of his ridiculously long mane of hair, and Damien's heart clenched with dread, his thoughts racing. _Oh my God, not here, not now. That vulking son of a bitch has to choose the worst possible moment..._

As if being released from a spell which had turned each and everybody to stone the crowd reacted instantly, and fists were shaken again and angry shouts cut through the frigid air. "Kill the abomination!" "That thing has lain with the Evil One. Burn him and his devil's child!"

Shaking with bone deep revulsion Damien shot a questioning glance at the agitated faces all around him, faces so distorted with naked blood-lust and blind hatred that they were rather resembling ragewraiths than mere human beings, more monstrous than the Neocount of Merentha had ever looked even at his worst. Whatever horrendous crimes Gerald had committed during his undead existence to please the Unnamed and satisfy his hellish cravings he certainly didn't deserve this treatment by the hands of the very people for whom he had sacrificed his immortal existence to save humankind from eternal slavery.

Stones were flying now, and one hit Gerald's face, leaving a bleeding bruise on his left cheekbone. The adept curled up into a ball, his arms tightly wrapped around his abdomen, and Damien steeled himself, pushing his emotions aside. He would deal with his anger and hurt about Gerald's betrayal later, would bury his feelings in a pit deep down in his soul as bottomless as the depths of Novatlantis, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he would allow a crazed lynch mob to stone Tarrant to death.

When Summers stepped forwards and raised his right arm the crowd fell silent all at once, and one could have heard a pin drop. "That's not the proper way to get rid of one of the minions of hell, my good people. Our faith teaches us that demons and evil sorcerers have to be given to the purifying flames. Do you agree with me?"

A fierce cheer erupted, the racket becoming deafening when some of the mercenaries brought stacks of firewood, chains and a wooden stake which had been hidden on the same cart which had carried the explosives. So everything had been planned meticulously, and Gerald would be the pawn, sacrificed to satisfy the people's blood-thirst and to strengthen the Church's authority. At least the adept would die relatively quickly and wouldn't have to endure the horrendous nightmare of torture in the dungeons of the Inquisition which was waiting for the other poor souls who had survived the attack and had been confined to a barred cart by now just to be handed over to the authorities as soon as this detestable scenario had come to its fiery conclusion.

Remembering the Hunter roasting on iron bars, the stench of scorched flesh and the piercing screams which still haunted his dreams Damien trembled with visceral dread. With good reason Tarrant had always feared burning like every sane creature did, and for the first time in his life Vryce cursed himself for never bothering how to handle firearms. A well aimed shot to spare Gerald the grisly fate of being put to the torch, the next bullet for his own fallible heart, and they would be free from the troubles of the mortal world and could discuss Tarrant's latest little scheme in heaven or, more likely, in hell for all eternity.

"Vryce, don't be an idiot!" a deep voice piped up at his side. "Gerald has always held your intelligence in high esteem, and now's not the right moment to prove him wrong."

Although Damien didn't recognize the middle aged man right beside him who looked like a well-to-do merchant the voice could only belong to a familiar, very scared Iezu. "What do you expect me to do?" Damien replied grimly. "Kill the bastards in the dozen? I'm not a superhero, Karril, as you very well know! If I could spare Gerald the suffering..."

"And murder an innocent child along with him? Your son, Damien Vryce, whether you like it or not. Your own flesh and blood."

For a moment Damien had to close his eyes and fight for his composure, at the end of his tether. Scared out of his wits by the drama unfolding before his eyes and angered beyond words by Gerald's ruthlessness he had never fully understood the implications of the lamentable predicament, but whatever the adept's reasons for tricking him into an act of procreation and however he had managed the impossible again they had both participated in creating life, and he couldn't just abdicate from his responsibility for the child's well being. No, he had to get Gerald out of this abominable nightmare alive, at whatever price he might have to pay for his intervention.

Karril regarded him full of sympathy, obviously registering his inner turmoil. "Listen, Damien, Gerald hasn't told me a lot, but when he turned up at my temple in the wake of the destruction of the Hunter's domain the worse for wear I read his mind, and apparently Gerald Tarrant had a kind of vision before he '_died'_. Don't even bother to ask me why, but the survival of both of them is of vital importance for the fate of mankind on Erna. Do you understand, priest? You have to do something, and quickly. I cannot..."

"Interfere? I thought as much. Why do some things never change?" Damien sighed exasperatedly. „Can you give me some diversion at least, something to scare the living daylights out of them?"

Karril's stricken face brightened up a bit. "Grab him and run for the back door of the Black Swan Tavern. I will give them something to remember, and you do the fighting. Deal?"

"Deal." Vryce's blood turned to ice-water at the grim prospects. Some of the worst nightmares created by the Hunter for his benefit had confronted him with the horrific possibility that he might have to fight his comrades of the Order of the Golden Flame one day to defend Tarrant, the very man who had represented their premier knight and the venerated figurehead of their faith, the prophet, almost ten centuries ago. From those dreams he had invariably woken up screaming, his face bathed in sweat and tears alike, and now reality was rapidly catching up with those unbearable illusions who had driven him close to despair more than once.

The world he had known and sworn to protect many years ago was drowning in flames and madness, and he was drowning as well, Gerald pulling him from the treacherously shiny surface of righteousness and religious fervour deeper and deeper downwards to an unknown destination. For a fleeting moment Damien succumbed to the temptation of envisioning the acerbic remarks Gerald would have doubtlessly in store for a former priest and his blind faith in a church which must have strayed from its path long before the situation had finally escalated. Alienated from human society since his birth because of his adeptitude Gerald Tarrant certainly hadn't cherished any illusions concerning the nature of mankind and had always been able to look behind the glittering facades like no other, an ability which had doubtlessly saved their butts in Mercia when he himself had been dazzled by a seemingly flawless theocracy. Nonetheless the adept had never fully given up on humankind and his wayward, most treasured creation, but had kept striving for an improvement of the colonist's lot on Erna throughout the long years of his existence. A living anathema, indeed.

In the meantime Mad Dog's wild bunch hadn't been idle, busying themselves with setting up the pyre for the last act of the drama. Boosting his spirits with a deep draft of whiskey heir leader stalked over to the adept who was on his hands and knees now, moaning and shaking in the iron grip of another contraction, and spat at him. "Get up, demon! I damn well know that your kind doesn't feel pain, so don't try to play your hellish tricks on us!"

A vicious kick to his back sent Gerald face first into the dirt again with a strangled scream, and the warrior knight's knuckles went white around the flame patterned hilt of his sword. Damien had abhorred the Hunter at the start of their precarious alliance, had been repulsed by everything the fallen prophet stood for, but nothing, absolutely nothing he had ever felt could compare to the wave of pure hatred surging through him right now, hatred that transformed the frigid air to choking fumes as scorching and blazing hot as on Mount Shaitan. Baring his teeth ferociously like one of their wilder ancestors he fervently hoped he could send that mad son of a bitch to hell with his own hands. "_There is a place and time for mercy. This isn't it_. (WTNF, page 324) Gerald had reprimanded him back in the realm of the Terrata, and for once the warrior knight absolutely agreed with him. Today there would be no mercy, on neither side.

To Vryce's surprise a tall, blond Knight of the Flame, young and dashing in his glinting armour, sauntered over to Summers and struck up an animated discussion with the one-eyed mercenary. Damien was too far off to understand each and every word over the buzzing of the crowd, but catching the words 'illegal' and 'proper trial' a spark of hope flared inside his chest for a moment, just to be extinguished instantly when the knight shrugged and strode back to his companions. Obviously he had no intention of alienating an ally for the sake of an half-dead sorcerer and his unborn child, and realizing that all the ideals he would have willingly given his life for lay in ruins the priest Damien Kilcannon Vryce had once been wept deep down in his heart for the corruption of the Church of Unification and his brothers in arms. Freed from the ever-present threat of spawning unholy demons with a mere thought at long last mankind had lost no time to create a different kind of hell right of their own making.

Given free license Mad Dog gripped Gerald's braid again and started to drag him towards the pyre when a huge blast of fire erupted over their heads, accompanied by a deafening roar which shook the ground beneath their feet. Damien looked up with a start, and his jaw dropped when his disbelieving stare locked on a gigantic black creature circling above them on leathery wings fiercely battling the air. The scaly body of the beast gleamed in the afternoon sun, and it growled ferociously, a deep, rumbling sound which made Vryce's hairs stand on end, showing glittering fangs the length of a man's lower arm. The warrior knight had only seen a picture of those legendary creatures once before in an ancient book from Earth safely kept in the seminary's library, but he would have his sword for breakfast without salt if this wasn't a dragon. Heaven knows where the God of Pleasure had picked up a description of those famous mythical creatures of their mother planet, but one thing wasn't up to debate: Karril, a true champion of illusion as any of his siblings, was currently producing his masterpiece.

All hell broke loose, the bloodthirsty lynch mob instantly transforming into screaming, crying individuals scared out of their pants. People were running everywhere, trampling over each other in their frantic attempts to escape certain doom, and the sheer level of panic was so frightening to behold that in any other situation Damien would have pitied the victims of Karril's manipulation, but the stone inside his chest which had once been a beating, feeling human heart wasn't able to feel a shred of compassion.

The better part of the mercenaries turned tail and ran for their dear lives as well, but Mad Dog hadn't given up on his prey yet, and dragging the adept to his knees again he drew his knife with a snarl devoid of any humanity, going for the kill. Safely cradled in a haze of fury Damien rushed forwards while everybody else seemed to move in slow motion, his sword coming out in a smooth arch and whistling through the air like a flash of white lightning.

The warrior knight was close enough to see realization dawning in the mercenary's face, the mouth which had besmirched his companion with its saliva opening ever so slowly in preparation for a last scream, but it was too late. In the next instant Douglas Summer's head hit the ground, followed by the rest of his body a few seconds later, and a gory shower washed over Damien and Gerald who had somehow managed to struggle to his feet.

A cloud of white and gold formed around them, Vryce's brothers in arms, but the former priest didn't hesitate for a second. He ducked a sword thrust and parried, and one of the knights went down with a piercing scream. Another one was dispatched by the adept's dagger, and the last surviving knight turned and ran, yelling for reinforcements.

Without thinking Damien scooped Gerald up in his arms and ran as well, heading for the Black Swan Tavern where Karril was already waiting for them with two black true horses from the Hunter's breeding stock which had evidently escaped the slaughter in the forest. One of the horses had been hastily loaded with warm blankets and some emergency supplies, and Damien was just about hoisting Gerald on the spare horse and mounting behind him when the adept stopped him. "I can very well ride on my own, priest. Don't want to be a burden for you."

The voice was a whisper, barely audible above the commotion just around the corner, but it carried enough venom to poison a small city. "Don't you try arguing with me, damn it" Damien barked with rising exasperation. "You can barely stand on your own."

The adept glared at him with unveiled disdain. "I don't have any plans of standing on my horse, Vryce".

"Could the two of you please save your bickering for a more convenient time?" the Iezu's irate voice cut into their pointless discussion. "One should think you have been married for ages! Just get going!"

A brown and a black head turned to grace the God of Pleasure with a glower that spoke volumes, and Karril winced and ducked his head. Knowing better than to waste his breath with a fruitless argument Damien gave Hawthorne a hand in backing the pack horse, mounted his mare and kicked her into a fast trot.


	11. Chapter 11

**A cave in the mountains**

Warnings: as usual; a lot of angst, but all in all one of the more harmless chapters (no torture, rape, incest and childbirth yet, if that worries you…;-))

Author's note1: I finally made up my mind to split this chapter in half, because otherwise it would be much too long (presumably 11 000 words or more). For me that's quite a blessing, because I still have to revise (or rewrite?) the tricky second part… That will take a while unfortunately. Sorry for the delay!

Author's note2: In my stories Gerald always retains his personality and his memories and just alters his appearances (shapeshifts) at the end of CoS, so of course a _transfer_ of said memories is not necessary, but Karril has to verbally pretend something like that has happened to avoid jeopardizing Gerald's life by connecting him to his former existence. Nonetheless I took some liberties with the prohibition of referring to a connection between the Hunter and Gerald Hawthorne, because otherwise it would have been outright impossible for Karril to brief Damien on the events that lead to Gerald's pregnancy, for example. I'm well aware that I crossed the line now and then, but please bear up with me. Well, I suppose I didn't make myself clear now, but hopefully you see what I mean when you read on;-)…

Author's note 3: I know that just a few religious texts from Earth survived the First Sacrifice, but let's just presume that the biblical tale of the Prodigal Son was one of them...

Author's note4: Poor Karril! Now he has to mother-hen two stubborn alpha males...

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oo

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."  
Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 

They had been on horseback for almost three hours, and the harvested fields and the wind-ruffled meadows had long been replaced by an increasingly hilly terrain, the stony ground demanding a high degree of attention if one couldn't afford an untimely delay caused by sprained horse legs or similar misfortunes. Although he crouched in his saddle and clutched the reigns of his horse like a lifeline Hawthorne was still putting on a good fight against all odds, apparently spared from falling to pieces yet by the last remnants of a veritable flood wave of pure adrenaline coursing through his veins and his very personal survival cocktail mixed of the proverbial stiff upper lip and a generous dosage of contrary defiance, but the warrior knight didn't doubt for a second that as alarming as Gerald's state of health had already been at the beginning of their hasty flight he simply had to teeter on the brink of collapse by now, and Vryce fervently hoped they would be able to reach Father Gabriel's cloister before the former Hunter had used up the last ounce of his waning strength.

The Knights of the Flame and their worldly allies wouldn't take today's events in their stride, and doubtlessly they were already assembling a posse to hunt them down like two rabid animals. Damien shuddered. May God have mercy on them if the mercenaries got them alive, but with winter looming and snowflakes falling from a steely grey sky for the last hour the weather conditions might prove a deadlier threat for two tired, ill equipped travellers, and Vryce's only consolation was the fact that their persecutors would have to cope with the same nasty problems. If they were lucky the hunt wouldn't commence till the following morning, and if not the obnoxious snowfall would have at least served to cover their tracks.

The eerie howling of the damned icy wind which was sucking the last remnants of heat from their frozen bodies abated just in time to perceive the ill-boding soft thud Damien had been dreading for quite a while now, and turning in his saddle the warrior knight felt his blood turn to ice water in his veins. Gerald had just fallen off his stallion who nudged his motionless master with his soft nostrils, and the thin blanket of snow below the adept's abdomen was already discoloured by a disconcerting amount of blood which was still seeping through his trousers and cloak. Muttering a vicious curse under his breath Vryce was off his horse in a heartbeat and rushed to Hawthorne's side.

As soon as he had frantically wiped the melting snowflakes from his eyelashes the warrior knight realized at first glance that there was no way of getting his incoherently mumbling companion to the relative safety of the remote cloister as he had originally planned. The parts of the haggard body which hadn't been exposed to the chilly temperatures were burning with fever, and with regard to the damned bleeding one didn't have to be a healer to reason that another two hours of a bumpy ride in the icy weather would kill Gerald as surely as if he cut his throat himself. Vryce raked his hair in naked despair. Dusk was close, and although the current snowstorm was just a gentle breeze compared to some of the blizzards he had had to endure during his numerous voyages in the service of the Church of Unification there was no doubt that the adept at the very least would never see the dawn again if they were forced to camp out in the open.

Scanning their surroundings Damien suddenly remembered the small hermit's cave Gabriel had shown him on their way to the monastery, and he muttered a heartfelt prayer of gratefulness at the address of the One God, the unknown recluse who had preferred a solitary life of prayer and penitence to the temptations of the mundane world and the kind-hearted monks who still cared for the provision of some stacks of firewood and the meagre supplies they could spare just in case that a stray wanderer needed a refuge. One could only hope that the wood would make them through what promised to be the coldest night of the year yet, and with a heartfelt sigh the former priest hoisted his unconscious friend onto his mare and mounted behind him, leading the packhorse by the reigns.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooo

One indeed had to be in big trouble to find a desolate, bleak place like the wretched cavern which rather resembled an animal's den than a human dwelling alluring, but his protesting body paralyzed with cold and his soul fraught with anxiety Damien had never been more grateful for shelter than he was now, and regarding Gerald he could have already carried a corpse in his arms, his friend being utterly unresponsive except for a pained moan when he had lifted him off their horse.

Hurriedly Damien stripped Hawthorne off his soaked cloak, vest and trousers and provided a makeshift bed from the not-too-clean-looking woollen rugs stacked in the back of the cave which were slightly damp, but nonetheless a big improvement on their own sopping wet blankets, and picturing the ever so finicky adept's bone deep revulsion at getting tucked tightly into those bits of smelly, threadbare cloth Vryce smiled faintly despite his worries. Having their backs to the wall fastidiousness had to take second place to survival, and unless a miracle occurred and the weather improved dramatically with temperatures already rapidly approaching freezing point in the late afternoon they would have to spend the night huddled together anyway to escape the icy jaws of death.

Groaning the warrior knight rubbed his sore back and dragged his weary limbs to the scarce supply of firewood which would last them till dawn if they skimped on it, but not much longer, and if the snowstorm hadn't tired itself out by then or Gerald was still too sick for a transport on horseback they would be in for a hard time. _Don't fool yourself, Vryce_, Damien thought grimly. _Do you really believe that you can get him back on a bloody horse tomorrow in the state he's in?_ _Giving birth under more than adverse conditions in a vulking cave in the mountains definitely won't do much to improve the damn son of a bitch's health_.

After they had killed 'Mad Dog' Summers and two of his former brothers in arms in Jaggonath today their merciless pursuers would be hot on their heels like bloodhounds which had caught the scent of their wounded prey, and with a twisted version of his deeds and his face all over the papers Vryce didn't harbour a sliver of doubt that sooner or later somebody would establish a connection between the unknown stranger who had dared to queer the bloodthirsty mob's pitch, the accursed fallen priest Damien Kilcannon Vryce, despicable ally of the Prince of Jahanna, and the healer Gerald Faraday. From this point on it wouldn't be a stroke of genius to find out about his friendship with Father Gabriel, particularly not for an institution like the bloody Inquisition which had its own rather empathic ways and means at its command, and sooner or later one of his colleagues at the hospital would spill the beans, be it in a fit of religious zeal, from sheer fright or breaking under whatever perfidious method of torture currently popular with the Church authorities and their secular headsmen.

A violent tremor of pure, unadulterated dread passed through the warrior knight's frame, and he sighed in sheer despair. Although Gabriel had hinted at a hidden chamber in the ancient building whose foundations had been laid in the early Revivalist period when he had offered him a sanctuary just in case somebody blew his cover and the going got tough endangering the prior who had shown him nothing but kindness and the hardworking fraters ran contrary to everything he believed in, but in the wake of the destruction of Karril's temple he simply had run out of options. If he were just responsible for his own well-being Vryce could have tried to cross the Divider Mountains again, battling the icy altitudes and its lethal demonic inhabitants preying on weary travellers alike to throw himself at Her Holiness' feet and pray for her forgiveness, possibly representing the final straw for causing a religious schism destined to tear apart the very Church which had provided his sole home since he had been a pimpled teenager in the process as the late Patriarch had foretold so many months ago.

Despite the appalling aberrations of the Eastern Autarchy the mere thought threatened to freeze the marrow in Damien's bones, but with the ailing adept in tow there had never been a snowball's chance in hell to make it back to Ganji, anyway, and however he racked his brain going into hiding at Gabriel's cloister presented the only slim chance they had left if they ever got there alive and in one piece. The former priest rubbed his burning face and tried to pull himself together. On their way to the cavern they had passed several small groups of gnarled shrubs, and if all else failed he might be able to construct a primitive sled or travois for Gerald, but for the time being it was presumably wiser to concentrate on the more urgent matter of surviving the night.

Rummaging through the scarce provisions mainly consisting of dried fruit, zwieback and several bars of nutritional supplements Damien gratefully spotted a packet of tea leaves, and when he had managed to light a small fire with trembling, swollen fingers which felt like stung by hundreds of red hot needles and pins he collected some snow for a cup of herb tea. Something hot might work wonders for both of them, although Vryce had no idea yet how to force the liquid down the unconscious adept's throat.

When the fire was burning steadily and the water was heating slowly on the primitive stove Damien finally returned to his companion's side for a more thorough check-up, forcibly pushing down his hurt at Gerald's betrayal and the bitter truth that he had just presented a means to an end for an utterly ruthless man who had once again made a decision for both of them without admitting him into his confidence. But never mind that the adept had played on him like on a puppet on a string while he had almost boozed himself into an untimely grave and prayed himself hoarse on his very knees for Tarrant's eternal salvation. Somehow he had managed to forgive the Hunter for his atrocities committed on ten thousands of innocent victims and himself, had learned to cherish the indomitable human soul still alive and kicking though half buried under the weight of centuries of vile corruption far beyond mortal reckoning, and one fine day he might be able to forgive the human being Gerald Tarrant or however his former companion preferred to call himself nowadays as well for his inconceivable treachery.

Vryce had already lost the vocation which had once meant the world for him and had been excommunicated in absentia and cast out of his order months ago, but he was still a healer, and a healer had to help his patients as best as he could apart from his personal feelings. Daunted by his inability to Work the fae and the lamentable absence of the limited medical technology Erna's scientists had frantically been developing over the last seventeen months Damien gritted his teeth and bent to his task, insanely grateful for his on-the-job training while working at the Neocount of Merentha and old Healer Martin's perseverance who had insisted on the young aspiring sorcerers who had shown some promise in Healing getting a fair amount of practise in curing the sick without using the fae many, many years ago.

"Just imagine there's a quake and you have to stop somebody from bleeding to death; being fried to a crisp won't help your patients, you lazy young rascals", they had often been admonished by their teacher. Naturally the _'lazy young rascals'_ had rolled their eyes and giggled behind Healer Martin's back, deeming him hopelessly old-fashioned and their lessons a waste of time, but when the worst came to the worst those underrated skills very possibly could make all the difference between life or death now.

With a silent prayer Damien checked on the ominous bleeding first which had thankfully faded away to a slow trickle presenting no immediate danger, and the warrior knight drew a deep breath when some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. Nevertheless the adept was evidently in a bad shape, pulse racing, breath shallow and his skin flushed with fever, but what truly worried him sick was Gerald's frailty, the delicate bones threatening to poke through the hot skin of his emaciated body, and with a shudder Damien recalled how effortlessly he had been able to carry his companion, the grown man in his arms weighing not much more than a child.

Not good. Damien was reasonably sure that Gerald would have to dredge up each and every bit of his remaining strength and resolve before the night was over, a creepy thought which sent a shiver down his spine and spawned the heartfelt desire that the adept could stay comfortably in the realms of unconsciousness until everything was over. Gazing at the juvenile body with its narrow hips gave him a strange sense of foreboding, and he didn't like that feeling, didn't like it at all.

"Don't you dare dying on me, you foolish bastard", Vryce whispered, "not before I've beaten the stuffing out of you for getting the better of me with your asinine little devilry." Gently he stroked back a few black strands of hair and wiped the beads of sweat off the hollow-cheeked young face.

"How is he?" His deeply ingrained warrior reflexes apparently pretty much intact despite months of neglect and his bone-tiredness Damien was already halfway to his sword when he recognized the voice. Karril!

"Have you gone mad? I nearly jumped out of my skin!" Damien fumed. Examining the adept he had already gotten increasingly angry with the God of Pleasure who really should have better cut down on his lascivious occupations to keep an eye on his old friend instead, and now his simmering rage found a welcome target at long last. "Even a creature like you whose human body is no more than an illusion should be able to see that Gerald is in a pretty bad shape" he snapped viciously. "What on Earth and Erna has happened to him, Karril? He's half starved, weighs about a hundred and ten pounds and looks like death warmed over, not to mention the unnatural condition he is in and the distinctly unfunny practical joke you played on me. Have you both lost your vulking wits?"

Memorizing how Karril had had more than one of his chubby fingers in the pie when Gerald had played him for a complete fool, harping on his feelings like a finely tuned instrument and unscrupulously utilizing his affection and desire for his own devices as he was wont to, Vryce still felt sorely tempted to spit fire and chew rocks. Although it didn't come as a big surprise that the Iezu had naturally sided with the man he had known for centuries now Damien had presumed that their shared adventures would have earned him a kind of respect, if not friendship, at the very least, but obviously he had been wrong, and imagining both of them going into a huddle and laughing up their sleeves when planning how to hoax his gullible, besotted self he could have exploded with wrath.

Nonetheless the God of Pleasure had once again saved the adept's butt that afternoon. Without the aid of Karril's formidable illusory dragon he would have never been able to rescue Gerald from the fiery death which had been waiting for him, and his ashes would have been scattered to the four winds by now, the last remnants of an existence which had spanned nearly a thousand years. When it finally dawned upon him how close to death the former Hunter had come once again just a few hours ago the fire of Damien's furore was instantly extinguished by a frigid gush of belated terror so intense that he had to close his eyes for a while to regain his composure. Taking out his frustration on their sole ally in a world ravaged by religious madness, an ally who had had to witness his temple bombed to pieces and his followers butchered by madmen who dared calling themselves servants of the One God and had still risked everything to save the very founder of that religion, was sheer lunacy and served no purpose but venting his impotent anger.

"I know enough of human sensibilities to fathom that you feel a bit overtaken by the events now, priest", Karril cut into his musings, and Damien couldn't help but noticing that the Iezu's deep voice had taken on an unfamiliar agitated note, "but instead of heaping reproaches on us it would be wiser to reserve your judgement until you've learned a bit more about what has come to pass after you… healed Tarrant's failing heart. Maybe you will think better of the man who's carrying your child and my humble self."

"Maybe", Damien replied noncommittally. "Forgive me for not paying you full attention when you told me the crap about the visions, but I was rather busy digesting the fact that I'd been tricked into getting a _man_ pregnant, not to mention that the damned master of disaster had just managed to get himself even deeper into the shit than usual and was just about being put to the torch. Presumably I might be excused for not being quite up to the mark."

The God of Pleasure frowned, and the garish orange of his bejewelled robes deepened to an unsavoury shade of brown. "None of us has been '_quite up the mark'_ during the last months, I suppose. When Gerald turned up at my temple his body had already been badly battered by the necessary adjustments forced upon it, but after conception things definitely took a turn for the worse, and for a time I feared he wouldn't pull through. Male adepts have tried before, you know. It's a dark, well-kept secret I had no notion of until our mutual friend the Lady Ciani let the uncat out of the bag when I consulted her in the matter. None of them survived the attempt, Damien, not a single one who didn't miscarriage in the first few months, and their unborn children died with them. You weren't there when Gerald puked his guts out for weeks on end and doubled up on the bed, not even aware that he was crying for you in his delirium, so don't you dare to condemn us out of hand."

Karril's robes were a fathomless black now, the utter absence of light spreading from his body to the very air around them like the heart of a true night until even their modest fire was smouldering with dark flames which seemed to suck in the remaining faint daylight, and a surge of naked horror threatened to smother Damien's rational thinking when the dreadful implications of the Iezu's words sank in. _'None of them survived_'. And the fae had been Workable back then. Dumbstruck the warrior knight groaned and rested a hand protectively on Gerald's belly just in time to feel the abdominal muscles hardening under his gentle touch, and although he was still deeply unconscious the adept flinched and moaned softly._ SHIT! _"For heaven's sake, Karril, I'm not exactly an expert in obstetrics. Why didn't you just get him into a hospital, against the stubborn bastard's will if need be?"

"Don't be a fool, priest", the God of Pleasure replied gravely. "In times when you get tortured and burned for saying the wrong prayer shouting Gerald's condition from the house tops would have been tantamount to throwing him to the wolves, as you very well know. You were an eye witness today when those drunken half-wits slaughtered innocents in the name of your merciless god and the mob cried for Gerald's blood. Presumably it wouldn't have been worse than our hair-raising excursion to Tarrant's hell, but nonetheless I wasn't very keen on rescuing our friend from the dungeons of the Inquisition."

A sensible argument, as far as Damien was concerned, but his broad shoulders stooped under the burden of a situation he wouldn't have thought possible in his wildest dreams, and he dimly wondered what kind of miracle was he supposed to work now to save Gerald's life. _'None of them…_' _Cut it, Vryce_, the warrior knight reprimanded himself. _As you very well know the foolish son of a bitch has always had a knack of being the first. The first human being on the whole vulking planet who had dared to barter his humanity to the forces of the dark, the first who had sent an Iezu to hell, and the first and the last man you have ever made love to. _

_Dear God in heaven, _Damien prayed silently_, maybe both of us haven't exactly covered ourselves with glory in Your eyes, but please look after Your own now and let the founder of our faith also be the first male adept to survive this act of utter madness and save our son as well. Perhaps there aren't rivers on Erna deep enough to cleanse his fathers from their manifold sins, but don't let him pay for our deeds, I beg you._

Absorbed in his prayer Damien was completely oblivious to the fact that his calloused sword hand was still absentmindedly caressing the adept's baby bump until all at once strong, astoundingly human fingers closed around his own and squeezed gently. "Listen to me, Damien. Naturally I'm more versed in the realms of lust than in the tangled chaos of mortal emotions, and I don't know enough of love to feel qualified for judging Gerald's feelings, but through all the long years I've known him you're the only human being he's ever cared about. Blessed with a rather intriguing combination of brains and beauty and very well capable of charming the pants off you if he sets his mind to it each and everyone of my male followers and priests gravitating to same sex dalliances would have gladly participated in the required carnal intercourse, but taking a lover other than you was never up to debate.

"You should have seen Gerald when he was preparing to seduce you", the God of Pleasure continued with an impish chuckle. "He was as fidgety as a virgin, taking three baths in a row and fretting about what to wear for hours while still pretty much determined to keep up the ridiculous pretence that he was just getting ready for a simple act of procreation with no strings attached. How his temper flared that day because he very well knew that he couldn't hide the truth from me."

"Don't you agree that lecturing on the vulking _truth_ is talking pretty big for a creature that lured me into his confounded temple, plied me with his bloody drugged booze and tricked me into knocking a bloke up, Karril?" Vryce replied bitterly. "You can talk yourself blue in the face and dress up the bleak facts in flowery words all the way you want to, but I don't know what to believe anymore, I really don't know."

Despite his blunt words Damien couldn't help but remembering all too well how alluring his lover had looked the night when their son had been conceived, so breathtakingly beautiful in his sheer carmine robes which hadn't left much to the imagination, and when the dark eyes had invited him with a seductive 'come hither' expression setting his nerves on fire and the layers of soft silk had parted tantalizingly slowly to reveal a naked, aroused body, the lush mane of glossy raven hair flowing around it like a black river of pure temptation… Very much against his will Damien's mouth went dry at the image, and he swallowed convulsively.

All at once Gerald's body tensed up anew, and shaking, much too warm fingers groped blindly for something to hold on to and closed around Vryce's wrist with surprising strength. "Damien…" The choked, feeble voice was barely audible above the howling of the snowstorm and the hammering of his heart, but to the warrior knight it sounded sweeter than a veritable choir of angels singing God's praise to an accompaniment of golden harps and lutes.

"Shush, Gerald, it's alright. You're doing fine", the warrior knight murmured soothingly, hoping against hope that his statement wasn't a blatant lie and that his comforting words would somehow make it through to his lover, but approximately a minute which felt like eternity passed until the adept relaxed his death grip around his wrist and Damien let out the breath he hadn't even realized holding in.

Regarding the shabby trick both Gerald and Karril had played on him Vryce definitely didn't feel inclined to accord credibility to the Iezu, but hearing with his own ears that the adept breathed his Christian name when he surfaced from the bottomless depths of fever and exhaustion for a fleeting moment something sharp and icy melted inside Damien's chest for the first time since he had learned about Gerald's condition and his involuntary contribution. Possibly the God of Pleasure had told the truth for once when he had professed that his lover had called for him when he had been racked with pain and sick as a dog for weeks on end, and perhaps Gerald's decision to bear _his_ child instead of picking one of Karril's entourage or a complete stranger had indeed been based on affection rather than on the handy availability of a certain enamoured former priest.

"Seems he's coming around. I reckon that's a good sign, isn't it?" The Iezu's voice trembled slightly, and when Vryce finally managed to tear his eyes away from the sweaty, young face visage of his lover and faced the God of Pleasure he realized with a start that Karril was no less scared and horrified than himself, a very disconcerting revelation that wasn't exactly helpful for allaying the warrior knight's fears .

"Actually I don't have a clue. If we weren't stuck in this vulking cave in the middle of a snowstorm I would opt for some leg compresses to get the vulking fever down, but as it goes it will be hard enough to keep us from freezing to death tonight without making matters worse by splashing around with cold water. As far as I can judge it his temperature isn't life-threatening yet, and under the given circumstances I'd rather save that method until there is no other way. Moreover it might be a blessing in disguise for Gerald that he's still out cold. I don't know whether you are familiar with the bare mechanics of human childbirth, but if I'm not very much mistaken he's already in considerable pain, and it will get worse when the contractions get incrementally stronger and longer. A lot worse, I'm afraid. Giving birth always hurts like hell, and without any analgesics to ease the pain my hands are tied."

Damien's voice failed him for a moment, and a blinding wave of naked panic coursed through his trembling body like a wildfire. "Other than holding his hand and reassuring him I'm next to helpless, Karril, and that scares the living daylights out of me. A heavy bleeding like he suffered on our way never bodes well, and as fragile and wasted as he is I very much doubt that he will be strong enough for the torment laying in store for him. Just looking at those narrow male hips I'm torn between getting the creeps and fighting down the bloody urge to bestow that walking disaster with a mighty kick in the arse. Why the heck couldn't the damn bastard cut down on his vulking vanity just once in his lifetime? A slightly broader pelvis wouldn't have marred his beauty but might have simplified matters a lot, you know."

The God of Pleasure averted his gaze and fidgeted uneasily, and not for the first time Vryce marvelled whether the Iezu's human half wasn't gaining momentum with each passing day. "I know it will get worse, and I won't deceive you by pretending I haven't shared your compunctions since Gerald let me in into his plans. When I read his mind to gain some knowledge about the chain of events leading to this wretched predicament I had to put up with the appalling visions forced upon Tarrant prior your doomed trip to the Keep, visions which the former Hunter somehow managed to transfer to our friend _Hawthorne's_ mind ere he 'died' at the hands of his last living descendant. What Gerald had to witness…"

The Iezu trailed off and shuddered. "After what has come to pass I can't blame you for distrusting me", he continued tensely, "but let me assure you that I'm truly grateful for what you did for Tarrant and that I would be proud to call you a friend. Gerald knew perfectly well he was putting his life on the line when he made his choice and settled for attempting the impossible once again. You can take my word for it that the grim future prospects gave him a good scare despite his flaunted bravado and his familiar disposition to what you mortals so colourfully call having a pole up one's ass, but he definitely derived a lot of comfort from the knowledge that you would be at his side in his hour of need. Perhaps you can find at least some solace in the fact that your lover holds you in sufficiently high esteem to entrust you with his life. Let's not give up hope, Damien. Gerald's the most resilient human being I've ever met, and I shouldn't wonder if he still had an ace or two up his sleeve."

Hot tears welled up in Damien's eyes, and he buried his face in his hands, at the end of his tether. Why on Earth on Erna hadn't Gerald taken him into his confidence but had carried his heavy burden all on his own with no one but Karril to relieve his hardship? Although as a Knight of the Flame and devote church representative his vocation had been uppermost in his mind deep down in his heart Damien had always had a soft spot for children, but he would have abandoned all hope of ever founding a family for a life with Gerald without thinking twice. The amazing opportunity of having both a child and the man he loved more than life itself despite the adept's unholy past and irritating peculiarities would have had him on cloud nine if Gerald had ever bothered to confide into him, and imagining all those irrecoverable blissful moments they could have shared when their son had been slowly growing from a tiny spark of life to a small being ready to welcome the world Vryce at long last lost the fight against the racking sobs forcing themselves out of his aching chest, so lost in his misery that he didn't give a damn for Karril witnessing his emotional release.

"I wish he would have told me", the warrior knight whispered hoarsely when he had at least partially recovered his voice. "Together we would have found a way, and…"

"It wasn't allowed, Damien", the God of Pleasure cut in. "A solemn oath stilled Gerald's tongue, but neither human laws nor gods or deities have bound me by a covenant yet except the Mother of our kind. Just keep quiet for a while and let me show you what really happened near that cave at the slopes of my birthplace."

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 

When the illusions Karril had conjured up for him faded into non-existence Damien was thunderstruck, and his mouth hanging agape he stared at the Iezu in utter awe, for once at the loss of words. It didn't really matter whether the God of Earth had always existed and watched over his children or the combined belief and prayers of the faithful had created a sovereign god of Erna. Theologians would bicker happily about that issue for centuries without a doubt, but at the moment Vryce had no intention whatsoever to join their ranks. All that mattered was the incredible fact that Gerald's dream for which he had bartered his humanity to see it fulfilled had finally come true, and that instead of rejecting Tarrant as He had done in the wake of their escape from the Terrata the Lord had welcomed the fallen Prophet back with open arms like the biblical Prodigal Son, offering him a chance to atone for a millennium of torture and murder.

"The nature of the one God is mercy, and His word is forgiveness" (WTNF, p.353) the warrior knight reverently quoted the Prophet's writings, and he couldn't have cared less that tears were running down his face again. If the Lord had placed this burden on Gerald's shoulders for the sake of mankind he would help him shoulder it as best as he could, and although the adept was certainly paying a heavy price for his redemption everything might still fall into place in the end if God in His infinite grace indeed looked after His own.

"But there's still something I don't understand, Karril. Tarrant struck a vulking bargain with God, and for lack of anything better to do that incorrigible, headstrong, stubborn bastard rushed straightaway headlong into ruin? Damned me to my own private hell of guilt and remorse for the sake of his bloody library?"

"Don't forget that the _'incorrigible, headstrong, stubborn bastard'_ sent you away to save your life, priest. Didn't you pay attention? Knowing that you're already fraught with worry I spared you the worst of the bloodcurdling visions Tarrant had had to endure, but by now you should have absorbed into your thick head that the former Hunter's demise was part of the deal. You know the reasons for Gerald's actions now, and instead of quarrelling with fate you had better get out of your wet clothes at once and join your sweetheart under the blankets if you intend to survive the night. You're shaking like a leaf."

Vryce glared daggers at the God of Pleasure, but as much as he was loth to admit it Karril was right. The warrior knight's teeth were clattering uncontrollably, and he had started swaying on the spot as if he were drugged up to the eyeballs with one of the nastier narcotics available on the black market. Even a blind man without any medical knowledge would have recognized the symptoms of an impending collapse, but before he could allow himself a short nap there were still some obligations to fulfill. "Not now, Karril", Damien mumbled thickly, his tongue feeling like a clump of lead inside his mouth. "There's no food for the horses, but I have to unsaddle the poor beasts and rub them dry at the very least, and we have to keep an eye on Gerald."

"Thank goodness you are neither stubborn nor headstrong, priest", the Iezu retorted sarcastically. "Nobody can deny that our friend Hawthorne is a bit of a handful even on a good day, but you were doubtlessly forged in the same furnace. Dropping dead from hypothermia you won't be much of a help if Gerald needs you. I will care for the horses and stand watch, and if he comes to or gets worse I will wake you up at once. That's a promise, and now get going and do what you're told for once."

His body exhausted beyond the limits of endurance and his mind clouded by the horrendous events and the string of mind-blowing revelations which had been sprung upon him during a single day Damien's eyesight was slowly but surely narrowing into a tunnel, and he barely noticed that his numb hands were trembling so badly that Karril had to peel him out of his leather boots and wet clothes. Sighing the God of Pleasure wrapped him into the last remaining blanket, forced him down gently and tucked him in at Gerald's side. Already more than just half asleep Damien gathered his lover into a tight embrace and kissed his burning forehead. Then everything went black.


	12. Chapter 12

**Till death do us part  
**

Disclaimer: I still don't own the Coldfire Trilogy and the Song of Songs (Songs of Solomon)**  
**

Warning: well, the obvious, including a hard time for poor Gerald (and Damien as well); also flashback to child abuse/ incest (right at the start just in case you want to skip it); this chapter contains some grisly topics and is presumably not for the very squeamish, so please beware if this gives you the creeps…

Author's note 1: You will detect soon that strayed from the canon in some respects, transforming Gerald's evil siblings to mere half-brothers and changing the surname of his family. In my opinion if you're about starting a new line (and life) and had very negative experiences with your relatives you might want to assume a different name in order to distance yourself from your past and avoid confusion (his older siblings were still alive after all when Tarrant was created Neocount). Maybe he just accepted Almea's name. Who knows?

Author's note 2: You might not believe me, but that uncanny regression to childhood concerning somebody's voice really exists. I know for sure because it has happened to me once. Anyway I think it's not too implausible that racked with pain and delirious Gerald is suffering from a nasty flashback and that his vocal chords just join him on his journey into his past…

Author's note 3: I also took some liberties with Tory's name, because I wasn't able to detect a reliable source concerning its meaning on google. A pet form called 'Tori' exists for the Scandinavian Christian name 'T(h)ore which is derived from the Aesir Thor, the God of Thunder, though, and for lack of a better solution I chose this one. As far as I know a lot of explanations are given for the origin of the surname 'Tarrant' , but there is a Welsh Christian name meaning 'Thunder', presumably derived from the Celtic God Taranis who used to be the deity of sky, weather and thunder, so it's somehow fitting.

Author's note 4: Sorry for the outrageous length of the chapter, the evil cliffhanger and the repeated change of the POV, but I wanted to give the poor sods a bit of time to sort things out, and I simply had to do both of them justice...

Many regards to Silvereyedbitch and Black Dragon's Ghost. Hope you are alright, loveys!

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

What doesn't kill us makes us stronger (Friedrich Nietzsche).

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

The man who had been the Hunter in another life, another time felt himself drowning in an ocean of pain, the tide rising higher and higher, smothering him until he desperately fought for each breath. Presumably his despicable siblings had gagged him again to stifle his screams as they were wont to when they paid his bedchamber one of their secretive nocturnal visits, and shaking with disgust and fear Gerald commenced to count the crushing waves of pain racking his abdomen in his desperate struggle for awareness.

_Four, five, six..._ With his two oldest brothers away fighting in King Edward's army pacifying the North his ordeal for the night might very well be over if he was lucky. Maybe the plastered bastards would leave him alone now after they had shown him his place in the pecking order in their customary fashion, and he could finally head for the bathroom and rid himself of their fingerprints and vile stench by scrubbing himself raw until he bled as he had done on more occasions that he could actually count. _Please God_, Gerald pleaded silently, _I'm well aware that I am an abomination in Your_ _eyes_, _but_ _let their vile cravings be slaked now, and from this day onwards I will always be a good boy, I promise. I will forsake my evil witchery and fight the demon that has taken possession of me very much against my will if only…" _

Seven... Good God, they were taking turns again, and he already hurt so much. If the six devils in disguise who dared to call themselves his brothers continued violating him they might actually go overboard and kill the disdained disgrace to the proud Marshall family tonight; he could feel hot blood running out of his torn body already, soiling the sheets under his cramped limbs and adding to the unspeakable filth of sweat and even more abominable substances they had marked him with, but they wouldn't mind. They never did.

Gerald still vividly remembered his brother's cruel remarks about the little freak's blood being cheaper than oil, and one fine day he would teach them how precious blood really was, would make them beg on their knees for the pain to stop, would rip them apart slowly and taste their blood, revelling in their cries for help, for his mercy, for a quick death at least. His own cries had never been heeded, though.

Eight… With the last of his strength Gerald choked off a desperate wail for his mother. Bitter lessons of experience had taught him at an early age she wouldn't dare to come to his aid even if he screamed himself hoarse in his agony. Cradling him in her strong, protective arms Mes Anna, the head cook at his father's fortress and his lifeline to sanity, had told him one night that Lady Geraldine had been a lovely, spirited young woman when she had been forced by her guardian to marry his father after his first wife had died giving birth to her eighth son, but she had been bullied into submission long ago. Now she was just a feeble, ailing woman, prey to his sire's mindless brutality and prematurely aged by crushing hopelessness and the sorrow for her only child, and deep down in the dark abysses of his soul never revealed to anybody Gerald couldn't help but despising his mother for her vulnerability so akin to his own and her inability to safeguard her son.

Nine… It had never been that bad before. Gerald knew perfectly well that his humiliating begging wouldn't do him any good but just serve to fuel his siblings' sadistic pleasure, but he simply couldn't stand the excruciating pain any longer. "Please, stop it! Please! I can't take it anymore…"

With a start Damien Vryce came to himself and scanned his surroundings, wondering dimly why the heck he wasn't in his warm bed but in a vulking cave in the presence of a whimpering child whose heartrending pleads had evidently woken him from his fitful slumber. His dazed musings were abruptly brought to an end by a vicious blow to his right kidney, and when he pivoted laboriously, muttering a whole string of rather ingenious curses under his breath both at the address of the unknown aggressor and his aching joints, his gaze instantly locked on a familiar shape tossing and turning restlessly under his blankets. Slowly but surely the warrior knight's sleepy brain commenced its proper functions, and the tide of events hitting him with the force of a brick Damien's breath caught in his throat. Shit!

At the first glance Vryce had to face the disconcerting fact that Gerald's condition definitely hadn't improved since he had carried him into this wretched hiding-hole. Drenched in cold sweat and his teeth clattering a wild staccato the adept was battling his covers like a mortal enemy trying to strangle him, utterly lost in the clutches of a fever induced hallucination. Fraught with worry the warrior knight tried to pull his lover into a consoling embrace in the vain hope that his comforting proximity would somehow penetrate Gerald's delirium, but to his bewilderment he was pushed back with surprising strength for a body so slender and frail. "I'll do anything you want, brothers, but please don't take me again. It hurts so much…"

The tearful whimper of a young boy who hadn't even reached puberty bore no resemblance whatsoever to either the Neocount's smooth, light tenor or to Hawthorne's slightly huskier voice, and Damien froze with horror, his thoughts racing. 'Please don't '_take'_ me again'? _'Brothers'_? As much as he wished it otherwise that gut-wrenching imploration didn't leave much room for interpretation, and with rising dread Vryce remembered what Tarrant had told him about the killing of his loathed siblings in those utterly lightless belowground caverns in the rakhlands so many months ago. "_Those eight murders are among my most pleasurable memories"_ (BSR, page 523) Gerald had confessed to him, and there had been no mistaking the vicious tone and clenched fists for anything but an unwonted outburst of fierce, undying hatred still simmering just below the ever so composed façade after the passing of a millennium. Although hypothetically Damien had to allow for the remote possibility that Gerald's delirious delusions had no real background whatsoever and that he was jumping to unverified conclusions in his addled state of mind his gut feeling told him differently, and he felt his blood running as cold as the frigid winter night.

The Lord have mercy upon him, but the former priest at long last comprehended what had happened to that deplorable, defenceless child so many centuries ago, comprehended what kind of outrageous deeds committed on Tarrant in his childhood very likely had deformed an innocent soul so that the first seeds of darkness had taken hold just to blossom into the misshapen flowers of sadism and cruelty when the pillar's of Gerald's soul had finally cracked under pressure and he had succumbed to the lure of powers evil beyond mortal reckoning who had used their hold over him to mutilate his psyche beyond recognition until the former Prophet of the Law had taken delight in the torture and murdering of his hapless victims. Born as one of the first adepts at the end of Erna's dark ages when people had considered adeptitude a form of demonic possession not only the despised 'changeling' had grown up under the constant threat of being put to the torch while his infant brain had desperately fought to cope with the strange visions of an adept with no one to help and guide him, but also he obviously had endured a personal hell Damien Vryce couldn't bear looking into. No wonder Gerald was fastidious concerning his cleanliness; he certainly had felt sullied far beyond the limits of human tolerance.

Gagging with revulsion Damien staggered to the cave's mouth and vomited into the virgin blanket of snow, his mind reeling with horrendous images of a delicate, grey eyed boy cruelly violated by a bunch of brutal animals, and try as he might he couldn't stop retching and heaving helplessly until his insides were dry. No, no animals, that was for sure. Doubtlessly no species of the animal kingdom would stoop low enough to commit that kind of atrocities on an immediate family member, and Damien felt sick to his very bones. When he finally managed to get a grip on himself and rinsed out his mouth with a handful of snow his whole body was trembling violently, and he barely made it back to his companion's side on his unsteady legs, dead set on maintaining silence about those disturbing revelations for the rest of his life if the adept didn't broach the subject first.

"Be at rest, Gerald. I'm here, and whoever wants to harm you, be it demon or mortal, will have to achieve his goal over my dead body", Damien said softly and kissed the forehead of the human being he had betrayed his faith, his religious authorities and each and everyone of his principles for until his follies had culminated in walking through the gates of Tarrant's hell with the God of Pleasure at his side to rescue the very man he had sworn to wipe off the face of Erna in days way back when his beliefs and convictions hadn't been undermined by the Hunter's corrupting presence and plain human attraction yet. There was no reaction other than a faint sigh and a barely discernible fluttering of the long, black lashes, but to the warrior knight's relief Hawthorne seemed to calm down a bit under his ministrations, and heartened by his success Damien risked stretching out beside him and cradling his lover in his arms, breathing endearments and comforting affirmations into the adept's deaf ears. He wasn't even aware that he was crying.

The first sensory impression to penetrate the suffocating haze of Gerald's feverish delirium was a low murmur, calming like the soft fall of rain or the enticing sound of water running over the abraded stones in the small brook near Merentha Castle, a perfect place for a family outing on a clear, hot summer's day. He wasn't able to distinguish between the individual words yet, but the low, calming cadences were utterly devoid of the wicked malice and spite he was accustomed to when subjected to his brothers' slighting comments or worse, and the cold fingers caressing his burning skin were surprisingly gentle and soothing despite their calloused texture. Thankfully he didn't have to struggle for each breath now as no merciless beasts were holding him down any longer, stifling his pained groans with hands reeking of violence and blood and burying his slender frame under their bulky bodies while forcefully spreading his legs for their pleasure until he invariably prayed to the Lord or whatever pagan deity more willing to listen to the pleading of a freakish abomination existing beyond the grace of God that death would finally take either his brothers or himself and end his sufferings. An unidentified liquid was dripping onto his sweat-soaked face, and Gerald wondered dazedly whether he had dropped with exhaustion and blood-loss outside of his father's fortress on one of the frequent occasions when he had shunned the bathroom adjacent to his torturers' quarters to cleanse himself in the rain, but to his astonishment the drops on his chapped lips were warm and tasted of salt, and with the last ounce of strength the adept fought down his disorientation and struggled to open his heavy eyelids just to look into a well-known, sad face.

"Vryce?" Gerald croaked hoarsely, wondering where on Earth and Erna his siblings had gone and whether they would return at any moment now to recommence their appalling activities, their lust and sadism spurred on by another generous helping of his father's spirits and home made beer, but the priest would doubtlessly put those cruel bastards in their place and screen him from harm as he had done on so many occasions before.

Dimly Hawthorne remembered getting dropped rather unceremoniously into a subterranean cavern affording shelter against the lethal rays of the rising sun by the stout warrior knight, and that distant memory triggered other reminiscences as evanescent as the dark fae receding from the rising dawn. Vryce bleeding for him and sustaining him with his nightmares, Vryce battling the fire of the earth and the lethal coldfire blade alike in order to cut him loose from the grate he'd been roasting on for days on end like a suckling-pig, Vryce cradling him in his arms and offering his life to the fae when his ailing heart had failed him one time too many and he had feared that each hard-won breath would be his last. Always and evermore Vryce, his infallible pillar of strength. He had been so foolish in the olden days prior to his acquaintance with Damien, priding himself on his sorcery and inhuman power and looking down on the frail human beings full of unveiled contempt, but it had been this mortal who had saved him again and again with his unwavering determination and paramount courage, had saved not just his body but had pulled at least a marginal chance at redemption for his damned soul out of his hat as well. Although very probably Vryce would never know how much he admired him for Gerald Hawthorne that unbelievable man would always be a priest in the true sense of the word and a knight in shining armour, but said knight was crying now, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his strong, muscular body shaking with the forlorn sobs forcing themselves out of his heaving chest.

Despite feeling still slightly light-headed the fever-induced fog in Gerald's mind had lifted sufficiently by now to allow him the grateful insight that after the passing of a millennium presumably all what was left of his bestial half-brothers' mortal remains was a handful of dust in the wind, and as far as he was concerned humankind hadn't suffered from their demise. A thousand years ago Gerald had made a terrible decision influenced by adverse circumstances and his devastating fear of a premature passing due to his heart condition and what lay in store for him beyond the gateway of death, but whatever regrets concerning the slaughtering of his wife and children and his undead existence might haunt him in the lonely darkest hours of the night preceding the break of dawn ridding the planet of his siblings' presence wasn't one of them, most certainly not. Hawthorne could only trust that he hadn't spoken aloud in his delusional state, but thank goodness his body was granting him a merciful reprieve for the time being, hopefully long enough to put some heart back into his devastated companion.

This freezing winter night threatened to be a long and rather hazardous one, and not just his own survival but also their unborn child's could very well depend on Damien's healing skills and the warrior knight's capacity of remaining level-headed and making the correct decisions for both of them when the situation worsened and pain and fever got the better of him again. He needed Vryce's brain fully alert, not addled by detrimental dolour and pity. Just by a narrow margin Gerald stifled a self-derisive snort. All through the long years of his existence he had never felt inclined to succumbing to the abject human shortcoming of self-deception, and as far as he was concerned there was no reason to deviate from that prudent principle at the worst possible moment. As much as he wished it otherwise he had to face the unsettling truth that despite all his pleaded logical justifications there was an altogether different cause for heartening Vryce: regardless whether the influence of the accursed hormonal overkill due to his pregnancy were to hold accountable for his unaccustomed indulgence or he had simply fallen prey to a very bad attack of human affection there was no denying that witnessing the priest's grief touched a string deep inside him he had thought dead and buried for good ever since he had shackled his beloved family to the numarble slab deep down in the vaults of Merentha Castle.

The times when he would have relished in making Vryce suffer, would have gone to any length in order to shake the reverend's faith and corrupt him by every trick in the book until he wasn't able to discern good and evil any longer were long gone by, and gazing at the distinct lines of sorrow on Damien's rugged visage encouraged the ridiculous notion of smoothing them away with loving caresses and kisses. A deeply buried but suddenly jarringly insistent part of his soul longed for giving in to his fondness and apprehensions, desired to nestle down in Damien's strong arms and seek protection from ill very much in the manner of his abused, terrified younger self who was still haunting him in his dreams, but giving in to a pang of sentimentality would help neither the warrior knight nor himself under the given circumstances. Offering Vryce something familiar to drag him out of his emotional state of shock seemed to represent a wiser course of action, and a skilful application of arrogance and snappishness had never failed to push the priest's buttons yet. Damien wasn't exactly shy of voicing his opinion, and if his calculations were correct he would just have to bide his time until the irascible, outspoken priest provided him with the perfect cue for his advance.

Hawthorne was just about addressing his companion when a renewed bout of spasmodic pain exploded in his back and spread mercilessly into his abdomen, and curling up into a ball he barely managed to stifle an agonized outcry and settled for panting forth a whole string of rather inventive and eloquent curses through his clenched teeth instead. For heaven's sake, that hurt. To hell with manners and stoically suffering in silence!

When the pain faded into non-existence after what felt like an eternity and Hawthorne was finally capable of catching his breath and unfurling his cramped limbs his watery eyes instantly locked on a horror-stricken priest who looked ready to start tearing his greying hair out at any second. "Dear God, Gerald, are you alright?"

The adept very nearly prematurely ruined his effort to raise the priest's hackles by an amused smile threatening to curl the corners of his mouth in spite of his deplorable state. At his late age he really should have been above those inane notions, but having your deductions verified was evidently no less satisfying than in the faraway days of his youth. The time was ripe to lay out the bait. "What does it look like, Vryce? Seems I'm having the time of my life."

Even without utilizing their special bond for his benefit the Hunter had always been able to read his companion like an open book, wondering more than once how a man as incapable of hiding his true emotions as Vryce had ever made it to a high position in the snake pit of church hierarchy. That convenient feat naturally hadn't been changed for the worse by the deplorable inaccessibility of the fae, and despite his growing apprehension concerning the daunting task laying ahead it was rather fascinating to observe Vryce's spontaneous response to his provocative reply. To the adept's heartfelt relief the touching but altogether unproductive tears dried up instantly, and the abject despair on the priest's pinched face were displaced by a fierce glower evoking vivid memories of their shared past when Vryce had still been bursting to deliver humanity from his taint.

"Don't you dare to be snarky with me, you foolish, stubborn bastard. Have you taken leave of your senses all at once?" Damien blustered irritably. "Look at the vulking jam you've gotten yourself into. What do you actually think you're doing?"

Swallowing down the whole slew of fitting vitriolic remarks lying in wait on the tip of his tongue came hard to him, but Gerald somehow reasonably managed to restrain himself with regard to the undeniable fact that he had bigger fish to fry at the moment. Putting some fighting spirit back into the devastated priest was doubtlessly advisable under the given circumstances, but in his condition he definitely didn't feel equal to participate in a heated and rather pointless debate, and all things considered throwing oil on the fire of the warrior knight's righteous ire should wisely take second place to getting some rest as long as his body allowed it and bracing himself for the next bout of discomfort. "Come to think of it for lack of anything better to do I suppose I'm trying to give birth, Vryce. Sorry if I don't live up to your expectations, but as you can possibly imagine it's no bed of roses, and for once I could do without someone pestering me and calling me names or asking for my head served on a platter outright."

That unexpected acknowledgement of weakness under the guise of an ironic reply took the fight out of Vryce instantly, and his broad shoulders stooped under the burden of his responsibility. "Forgive me for my misplaced outburst, but right now I'm so mixed up, so overwhelmed with conflicting emotions that I can't think very well. The very thought of the manner you vulking played around with my feelings, pushed me aside just to harness my affection for you when the time had come to realize your asinine plans… Unscrupulously arrogating the privilege of making a decision for both of us you made my life a misery, but what truly preys on my mind is the undeniable fact that you preferred to trust Karril with your life instead of knocking at my door and letting the uncat out of the bag. That hurts, Gerald. You should have known that I would have stuck by you through thick and thin, and try as I might I still can't fathom why you didn't take me into your confidence. As far as I'm concerned abiding to the rules isn't one of your dominant character traits, and beyond doubt you would have found a way to circumvent the restrictions imposed on you if you truly had set your mind on it", the warrior knight continued cautiously, cursing the adept's damned bargain which forced him to beat around the bush in order to avoid jeopardizing Gerald's existence.

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Vryce. If I didn't trust you I wouldn't have sought you out on Black Ridge Pass. Courting death at my age's not on my agenda."

"Just to vanish into thin air and pop up months later nutty on being in the family way! Presumably there are more urgent matters at hand at the moment than my hurt pride, but try as I might I can't help wondering what influenced your choice of your son's biological father. Why me, Gerald? With your looks you could have had anybody you'd taken a fancy for, men more handsome than me and sufficiently powerful to hold a protective hand over you when the going got tough. Why picking a penniless, resigned priest without a vocation, a warrior knight cast out of his order, an impotent healer who's scared shitless by the prospect of delivering his child? With regard to your intelligence you should have made a wiser choice, that's for sure. If Karril's hadn't conjured up his vulking dragon to divert the bloodthirsty mob's attention I wouldn't have even been able to rescue your hapless hide from getting reduced to a pile of ashes today in Jaggonath. Only the Lord knows what you saw in me, but for my part I feel as old as Methuselah, worn out and utterly useless."

A fleeting expression of very human sorrow flitted over the youthful features, and to Damien's amazement there was no mistaking the emotions shining in those dark, hypnotic eyes for anything but sincere compassion and affection. "I thought as much, but that's surely the most blatant case of incorrect self-evaluation I've ever encountered, and trust me that I've met my fair share of inflated egos so far. For my taste you've been trying much too hard to hide your light under a bushel recently. Don't you assume you weren't under constant observation since Gerald Tarrant met his fate at the hands of that imbecile child Andrys. Your nonsensical wallowing in self-pity, your outrageous attempts to booze yourself out of your mind… Awhile I feared you would do something stupid, and Karril constantly kept a watchful eye or two on you on my behalf. You gave me a hard time, Vryce, something I could have very well done without while having my head over a basin for hours on end!"

Registering the barely veiled agitation in his voice Hawthorne cut himself off and drew a deep breath in order to regain his composure, inwardly cursing the damned priest for his unique capacity of penetrating the iron barriers of his self-control, but apparently the inevitable moment of truth had finally come. The adept stifled a sigh and steeled himself for the metaphorical jump over the cliff. "You asked why I chose you, and although I'd rather cut a long story short due to obvious reasons I presume I owe you an answer. Has it ever occurred to you that I hold you in very high regard, Vryce? That I cherish your boundless courage, your loyalty and your integrity? There was evidence to suggest that I couldn't have much of a say in the matter if I didn't want to hazard the consequences of meddling with the future, a doubtlessly very inadvisable approach all things considered, but know that _if_ the choice of Tory's father had been up to me I would have chosen you anyway for… very personal reasons. That it had to happen in this vein… There's no use crying over spilt milk, but I'm sorry that I had to trick you and that you were forced to kill your former brothers in arms for my sake today. Truly sorry."

That hit home, and the warrior knight just stared at the adept for a long time , his expressive hazel eyes shining with wonder and a faint spark of hope. Gerald had never been a friend of indulging in the trite human platitudes lesser minds apparently were so fond of, but registering the open vulnerability and love in those kind eyes he felt something cold and hard inside him melting at long last, and he reached for Damien's face and touched it gently, putting everything he couldn't bring himself to say into the caress. Leaning into the touch Vryce breathed a sigh, and as his large, calloused hand closed around Hawthorne's so much smaller one with astounding gentleness some of the harsh lines in the former priest's face smoothed out and didn't return.

"It's Tory, then? The name of our son? Sounds pretty good to me. Any special reason for choosing it?""

"It's an anglicized version of a Nordic Christian name inspired by Thor, the God of Thunder. If you paid some attention to your anthropology tutor at the seminary in Ganji you should be able to remember that the northern parts of the European continent on Earth retained their pagan traditions for a long time in spite of the efforts of the Christian missionaries. Tory's namesake was Gerald Tarrant's second son, Vryce, born during a thunderstorm and a carbon copy of his father in many respects. He hadn't just inherited Tarrant's looks like his older brother but his insatiable curiosity as well, frequently driving the whole household to distraction with his experiments and forbidden excursions when he wasn't re-enacting his father's battles for king and country with the toy soldiers the Neocount had ordered for his son's fifth birthday. Every now and then his mother made a big show of disapproving with the 'warriors' in her family, but for anybody who had eyes to see there wasn't a sliver of doubt that in private she was very proud of them both."

Hawthorne smiled wistfully, his wide, unfocussed eyes staring into the distance as if trying to bridge the distance of nearly a thousand years, and Damien's breath hitched in his throat. "When Tarrant had to choose who of his sons would be allowed to survive the sacrifice he repeatedly performed a Divining, but the result was always the same. Due to an incurable anomaly of his genitals Tory was sterile, wouldn't have been able to sire the heirs required to secure the bloodline, and so Eric was selected in his stead. Of course I can't know for sure, but I presume the Prophet never forgot the absolute look of disbelief on his younger son's finely-chiselled face when his adored father drew his dagger and commenced to cut his five-year-old sister Alix into shrieking pieces in the vain hope that this one sacrifice would be enough to attract the Nameless One's attention. As you may recall it wasn't as simple as that. Poor little lad."

Throughout his horrid tale the adept had managed to keep his voice even, utterly devoid of emotion, but a violent shudder passed through his haggard frame, and the knuckles of his fingers clutching the blankets were white. Since the Prophet's terrible fall into the darkness a millennium ago the religious authorities had been adamant that the first Neocount of Merentha had murdered his family in cold blood, but evidently they had been as mistaken as with their assumption that the revered founder father of their faith had gone straight to hell after he had completed his foul deed. Damien's heart wept for him, and try as he might he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering. "Shush now, Gerald", he choked out hoarsely when he was reasonably sure that he wouldn't burst into tears of pity at any given second. "This is not the appropriate time for tormenting yourself with things that cannot be undone anymore. Getting yourself all worked up will harm you and the baby, you know."

"But some stories have to be told as long as you've got the chance to do so. If a young priestess called Myra hadn't risked her life for my sake and paid the highest price for her charitable deed I would await divine judgement now instead of freezing my buns off in a cave. I wasn't precisely lucid at that particular time, but when the ceiling threatened to cave in and I had to face the bitter truth that I had miserably failed to protect our son… Do you remember the night the Hunter told you that children were expendable, Vryce? You might graciously put that error of judgement down on his demonic nature and the maleficent influence exerted on his thought processes by the compact, but I dare say that uttering this asinine statement Gerald Tarrant didn't exactly do his famed brains justice."

Damien could not have said this better himself, but when the true meaning hidden in Gerald's calm words dawned on him at long last his heart skipped a beat, and his blood ran cold with dread. '_As long as you've got the chance..._'. Evidently Hawthorne had barely escaped getting himself killed _twice_ in the time-span of a few hours, and the day wasn't over yet. Although one could presumably count the adept's character flaws ranging from mere human vanities to a tad more potentially lethal peculiarities by the dozen Gerald definitely was no fool, and he was doubtlessly aware that he was having his back to the wall and trying the impossible once again might very well claim his life. Getting an idea of the true reasons hidden behind the apparent words and deeds of that unrivalled master of psychological manipulation had never been easy for the warrior knight, but if he wasn't very much mistaken his lover had allowed him a glimpse into the abysses of his soul in an unprecedented fashion because he had deemed it best to get this crap off his chest just in case the grim reaper availed himself of the favourable opportunity of closing his mouth forever.

Gritting his teeth against the surge of crushing fear turning his insides into jelly Damien stroked a few damp strands of raven black hair from the emaciated, hollow-cheeked face, grieving for both the innocent children who had never gotten a chance at growing up and for their father who had been driven to a terrible deed by sheer despair and the stupidity of the Church of Unification which had threatened to condemn him outright for his inborn adeptitude. Silently Damien offered a heartfelt invocation for the unfortunate young woman who had given her life for Gerald's survival and the doomed family whose mortal remains had crumbled into dust ages ago with the noteworthy exception of the very man who was resting at his side now, hoping with all his heart that their souls were at peace.

"I'm so sorry, Gerald", the former priest muttered past the growing lump in his throat, "God moves in mysterious ways, but I truly believe that Tory forgave his cherished father his trespasses like his mother did, and one fine day they will be reunited in paradise. 'Love is stronger than death', the Prophet wrote more than nine hundred years ago, and maybe you should take those words of wisdom to your heart and set your mind at ease."

"As much as I hate to admit it you aren't quoting from the Prophet's writings but from the Song of Solomon 8:6 instead, but all things considered I very much doubt that this is a propitious moment to debate about the Holy Scriptures. I'd rather council… oh, God!"

His abdominal muscles tensing up anew with a vengeance the capacity for coherent speech temporarily deserted Gerald, and very much against his will he heaved a loud moan as the pain rose to a barely tolerable level. At the limits of his endurance the adept turned over onto his stomach and instinctively struggled to his hands and knees, but his desperate efforts to find a posture that would allow him to bear up against the cruel ache in his intestines only marginally paid off, and when the spasm released its hold on him at long last his sweat-soaked clothes were sticking to his exhausted, shivering body, To make matters worse Hawthorne felt acid bile rising in his throat. "I'm going to be sick, Vryce!"

Damien's trained warrior reflexes were still pretty much intact despite months of neglect, and in the next instance Gerald was scooped up and hurriedly carried to the mouth of the cavern just in time as he finally lost the fight and gave in to the irrepressible wave of nausea washing over him. Ingesting food had been out of the question for the last twenty hours and the adept's stomach should have been next to empty, but try as he might he couldn't stop retching his heart out until he was throwing up pure bile. Still heaving he was completely unprepared for the next cramp in his abdomen, much too soon for his liking and no less painful than the last one. Far, far away a fearful voice urged him to breathe, breathe through the pain, but for the time being he couldn't even remember how to draw a breath, and he was choking on his own vomit and on his pained screams which couldn't get past his constricted throat.

"For heaven's sake, Gerald!" The warrior knight's heart dropped into his gut, and utterly at loss what to do he came close to panicking despite almost two decades of experience in healing and patient care. When the initial moment of shock had passed thankfully the instincts of a natural born healer penetrated the haze of his crushing dread before matters got out of hand completely, and he vigorously patted his lover's back until the desperate gasps for air subsided and the laboured breathing returned to normal. Still trembling all over like a young tree in a thunderstorm Damien carried his light burden back to their cocoon of blankets. Holy crap, Gerald had given him a fright!

"I don't think I can face lying down again, Vryce. Frankly I'm not very keen on dragging this out for too long, and with regard to your profession it shouldn't come as a surprise for you that adopting an upright posture enhances the pressure of the foetus' head on the pelvis floor and might speed up things considerably. We don't want to overwinter in this scenic spot, do we?"

Damien blinked, for once at the loss of words. His lover had just escaped by a hair's breadth from being buried alive under tons of rubble, getting burned at the stake by a bunch of religious fanatics and choking to death in a single day, not to mention that he was racked with severe pain every few minutes and was very likely in for worse before the night was over. That would have been enough and to spare to unhinge each and every human being with the exception of vulking Gerald Tarrant aka Hawthorne who instead of coming apart at the seams placidly lectured on the correct posture during labour while the attendant healer in charge of taking care of him was incapable of forming a clear thought. Appalled at the neglect of his duties the warrior knight breathed deeply and pushed his nagging fears aside, bound and determined to focus on the pressing task at hand from now on.

"Just tell me what you need, Gerald. Would you prefer to walk a bit? You can hold on to me, and I'm here to catch you if your legs should give way under you."

The former Hunter nodded his assent, but it soon became clear that he was barely able to stand, not to mention putting one foot in front of the other, and in the end they opted for Damien leaning against the cavern wall and Gerald sitting in his lap, a posture which allowed the adept a certain mobility and gave the warrior knight sufficient access for an alleviating back massage.

"It's funny, Vryce", Hawthorne whispered softly as soon as they had settled down and Damien had wrapped them snugly into their smelly covers again without paying any attention whatsoever to the disgusted wrinkling of a delicate nose. "Gerald Tarrant took great pains that his children were conceived in the marital bed to avoid complications concerning his successor and the inheritance of the Neocounty, a provident approach if one's surrounded by a gaggle of begrudging enviers who're waiting for just the right moment to stab your back. Isn't it a deplorable staircase wit how I fail to live up to his shining example by giving birth to a bastard?"

For a fleeting moment the warrior knight suspected a weird joke to raise his spirits and relieve the tension, but the clearly audible consternation in Hawthorne's hushed voice prompted him to reconsider his judgment, and he gaped at his companion in stunned disbelief. "Well, I'll be damned! That truly takes the biscuit, Gerald. After all you've done and been through you're worrying about the absence of a vulking _marriage license_?" Damien blurted out exasperatedly. "Just in case you've somehow managed to push the harassing fact to the back of your mind that we doubtlessly created quite a stir in Jaggonath today I'd like to remind you that with the accursed bloodhounds of the Inquisition on our heels we're in up to our eyeballs! Either you have lost your ability to set priorities all at once or you are simply touched in the head. Not just since I've gotten acquainted with your latest stroke of genius I lean towards the second option, unfortunately."

Narrow shoulders rose in a noncommittal shrug as Gerald thought better than to waste his valuable breath for a verbal reply, but the waves of regret and disquiet radiating from the adept were almost palpable and told Damien everything he had to know. Swallowing his anger the warrior knight threw all caution to the wind and made his decision without thinking twice. Presumably Gerald's famous brilliant brain cells were currently addled by a wicked combination of ache, pregnancy hormones and the impact of the strict moral values of the Revivalist period, but if erring on the side of conservatism supported his pitiable lover in relaxing and gathering all his strength for the ordeal looming ahead he was more than willing to contribute his mite. After all it wasn't the first time in their stormy relationship that Gerald's survival required some desperate measures. "Turning back time is clearly beyond my capabilities, but if you're truly worried about giving birth to a '_bastard'_ for whatever reason there's still something we can do about it. Evidently it's an eleventh-hour decision, but as rumours have it you wouldn't be the first one to go from the altar or the register office directly to the delivery room. Regrettably we don't have either of them at our disposal in this wretched hellhole and I can't summon an official document for your benefit, but have you ever heard of the ceremony of handfasting?"

"As far as I know being in labour is not a synonym for acute amnesia, Vryce", Gerald snorted tetchily. "Of course I'm aware of the ancient Terran custom of handfasting, but with regard to the fact that it's indeed the eleventh hour I strongly recommend that you get to the heart of the matter. I'm not in the mood for elaborate history lessons."

"Well, that makes to of us, but instead of snapping at me you'd better get your ingenious brain going and remember that said honoured tradition survived the long voyage from Earth to Erna and is still a legally binding ceremony both on the Eastern and the Western continent. When the partners have plighted their troth to each other they are as validly married as if they had made their vows in church in the presence of a priest, and you don't even need witnesses. Thank God I'd like to add, because I very much doubt that our friend Karril or the potential stray beast suicidal enough to walk about in a snowstorm would fit the requirements."

The muscles in Gerald's slender back leaning against Damien's chest tensed up and his fingers tightened convulsively around the warrior knight's wrist, but this once the reason was anything but pain. "You'll never fail to amaze me, Vryce. When I made my decision I was reasonably sure that you would hate and despise me for the rest of your life if you ever found out what had truly come to pass, but instead of giving me the cold shoulder and leaving me to my own devices you're offering me your hand in marriage. Why?"

"Well, although I'm loth to admit it I'm rather fond of you when I'm not busy resisting the urge to get my hands around your vulking stiff neck" Damien retorted with a sheepish grin. "I hope you don't mind me saying that I still feel a bit overtaken by the events, but I'm actually slowly but surely warming to the idea of becoming a father. Can't deny though that I would have preferred a tad more conventional setting for the big event if the choice had been up to me." The warrior knight's smirk evaporated into thin air, and he gently cupped Hawthorne's chin and turned his head around. "Listen to me, Gerald. I'm sorry for my harsh thoughts back in Jaggonath, and I neither hate nor despise you. In fact I'm damn proud of you and your vulking courage, and I wouldn't want to miss what we had together for the life of me. We don't know where the road will lead us from here, but I would be over the top with joy if you walked it at my side. You'd better get that into your thick head as soon as possible, you crazy son of a bitch. So what do you say, Gerald? Will you do me the honour to marry me?"

His gaze locked on the young face so unlike the Lord of the Forest's impenetrable alabaster mask Damien held his breath and waited for the judgement to fall. "I'm the one who's honoured", Gerald whispered at long last, "and to answer your question: yes, I will gladly, but I'm afraid you have to allow me some extra time before we hurl ourselves into the adventures of matrimony and parenthood on the very same day. There's another one coming, and... fucking hell, priest, be prepared to meet the Maker if you ever dare to suggest repeating this bloody thing!"

Grimacing with pain Gerald turned round and straddled his shocked companion, only marginally aware that his fingernails were digging deeply into the warrior knight's shoulders as he panted for dear life and tried to ride out the excruciating spasm threatening to rip a scream of pure agony out of his throat. Deliberately suppressing the paralyzing mix of anxiety and deep sympathy threatening to impair his reasoning Damien murmured soothing encouragements and massaged Gerald's lower back until the shivering body sagged against him with a relieved sigh, but in the next instance a gush of warm liquid soaked Gerald's trousers and trickled down on Vryce's padded winter coat, and the warrior knight froze with sheer, unadulterated dread. Merciful God in heaven, if the damned bleeding had started anew...

"Calm down, Vryce. My waters broke, that's all. As a matter of fact I've been waiting for it to happen for quite a while. Not much longer now, or at least I hope so", Gerald added with a grain of his accustomed dry humour. "Although it is said that what doesn't kill us makes us stronger I can't say I'm sorry that this abominable mess is finally approaching its natural conclusion. Presumably we should refrain from wasting valuable time on negligible preliminaries from now on, though. Obviously the contractions occur with increased frequency and are more powerful, and if we continue dallying I fear I won't be able to utter anything just remotely intelligible when we get down to business. But help me to get out of my trousers first. Although it's supposed to be a temptingly painless fashion of biting the dust I've no intention of freezing to death in a damned cave. Giving birth in a warm stable in the company of an ox and an ass might have been a tad more comfortable."

In his befuddled state of mind it took Damien a while to digest Gerald's abrupt change of topic, but when he finally realized at which biblical event the adept was alluding to a smile brightened his tired face. "Seems you've lost your knack of good timing lately, Gerald", he quipped good-naturedly. "It's still three days till Yule Eve, but I hope you don't mind me saying that you would make a rather sweet Virgin Mary with your pretty face and your mane of black hair, at least as long as prying eyes don't have a closer look at your private parts. Not that I'm complaining, mind."

Gerald shot him a withering glare, but Damien didn't fail to notice that his lips were twitching with suppressed amusement, and the former priest turned his attention on the campfire to hide his big grin. After he had hurriedly put the better part of their last remnants of wood on the fire he peeled Hawthorne out of his dirty, wet pants, and all mirth instantly deserted him at the pitiable sight of the unblemished skin tightening painfully over protruding bones and his lover's spindly legs which were still trembling uncontrollably minutes after the last contraction had passed. Shaken to the core the warrior knight's heart clenched painfully inside his chest, and in spite of the icy cold he felt a trickle of sweat running down his back when Gerald stated to writhe in agony once more and clung to his hand like a lifeline while his loud groans battled for attention with the howling wind.

Doubtlessly Vryce should have considered that he would have been well advised to stop fretting like a madman if he didn't want to risk that his fears were transferred directly to the adept's mind via the channel, but despite his best intentions to keep a cool head the all but hopeless situation scared the living daylights out of him, and he simply couldn't keep his raging emotions in check. Unfortunately when it came down to Gerald his detached healer persona had long lost the fight for predominance to Damien Kilcannon Vryce the private citizen who felt exactly like each and every father-to-be he had encountered and buoyed up at the Neocount of Merentha: freaked out and utterly helpless. On top of his misfortune it didn't quite boost his morale that in stark contrast to his layman fellow sufferers he was well-briefed on the wide variety of things which could go terribly wrong during childbirth despite the placatory assurances of the members of the medical profession. A weak heart, an unstoppable bleeding, an incorrect presentation, those narrow, male hips… To make matters worse the newborns in his family had always been very big, and Damien still vividly remembered his mother grumbling about her offspring being a bloody nuisance right from the beginning. She had smiled fondly and winked at her children, but even after all those years he couldn't shrug off the suspicion that she had been only half joking.

An irritated poke at the mind link finally caused Damien to open his eyes which he hadn't even realized squeezing shut, and to his dismay he came face to face with a very fine exemplar of Gerald's infamous killing glares. "Last stages of labour and nothing out of the ordinary so far as you should very well know, Vryce, but would you kindly put paid to those unproductive _'a hundred ghastly ways to die in childbirth'_ images? Due to my preoccupation with the more urgent matters at hand it's unusually difficult for me to shut out your rambling thoughts, and in view of my current problems I find those visions rather disturbing".

Damn sure that upsetting his mate definitely wasn't a good idea under the given circumstances Damien felt sorely tempted to either bang his foolish head against the cavern wall or make a real job of it and jump off the nearest available cliff, but to his relief sensing his predicament the piercing obsidian stare softened visibly, and the corners of Gerald's mouth curled into an ironic smile. "Before long I might curse you and the day I was born alike, but apart from my gender I'm not the first and certainly not the last to go through this. Don't write me off prematurely, Vryce. I'm perfectly fine. And now let's honour a tradition thousands of years old as long as I've still got some breath to spare."

'_I'm perfectly fine'_? _The hell you are, you incorrigible son of a bitch, _the warrior knight thought miserably. Moaning in pain and doubling up like a worm pierced by a fishhook wouldn't make it on his shortlist of agreeable activities, not to mention that despite Gerald's flaunted bravado it was precisely the adept's bloody_ gender_ which caused Vryce's blood to run cold with dread. Facing a mortality rate of a hundred percent so far wasn't altogether encouraging from his point of view.

Stifling a sigh Damien banished all thoughts of high-risk deliveries under adverse conditions from his mind and took Hawthorne's bony hand. "Are you sure, Gerald? Truly sure you want this? That kind of union can only be dissolved by death even if the ceremony isn't followed by, well, sexual intercourse."

"And for this small mercy I'll be eternally grateful. I'm not altogether averse to repeating our amorous tête-à-tête at a suitable opportunity, but consummating our marriage tonight is beyond me, I'm afraid. As for 'till death do us part' it's not the first time that you bond for life, Vryce. You certainly remember the night you accepted a drop of Tarrant's blood. 'Could you live with yourself, knowing that a part of me was in your soul, and would be until one of us died?' (CoS, page 387) the Hunter asked you, and you agreed to swallow the bitter pill because you expected both of you to perish in the fight against Calesta anyway."

As if he could ever forget. Their insane race to Shaitan in the knowledge that the clock was ticking and the time was running out for Tarrant, Karril leading them to the small cavern on the ashen slopes of the volcano at the very last moment before the rising sun could burn his undead companion to cinders, Gerald's pain and the bottomless dejection in his voice, his adamant refusal to accept Damien's blood despite his desperate need to feed, to heal, those hungry eyes whose molten silver had been drowned in an ocean of black greed as lightless as the heart of midnight and the eerie taste of the Hunter's icy, alien blood on his tongue... Those memories burned into his brain still haunted him in his nightmares, but astonishingly instead of giving him the creeps the reminiscences of their shared past and the amazing parallels to their current situation ignited a faint spark of hope inside Damien's chest. Just like today they had been stuck in a bleak cave with a mortal enemy intent on nailing their hide to the barn door on their heels, and hurt and malnourished the Hunter had come close to despair, but against all odds they were still very much alive and kicking although the adept had been subjected to death, resurrection and transformation. Meeting each other that night in the dae in Briand must have been fate, and Damien's battered soul derived comfort from the notion that perhaps the Lord in His infinite wisdom had destined the former Prophet of the Law to turn his solitary life upside down since the dawn of time. For the first time since he had had to face Gerald's severed head and the grey eyes staring blankly into eternity Damien allowed himself a whiff of careful optimism instead of worrying himself sick to no avail. He would get his lover and Tory through this at whatever cost to himself, but first they had to legalize their special bond forged in blood in the face of death with the more earthly custom of marriage.

"It wasn't that bitter a pill after all. If I hadn't been blinded by my religious fervour I would have realized long ago that Tarrant was a part of my soul already and would be to my last breath and maybe beyond. Hope you won't sue me for bigamy, though."

Gerald smiled faintly, but Damien didn't fail to notice the tension in his shoulders and the bead of sweat running down his pale visage, and he hastened to remove the brown leather strap sporting a small silver disc engraved with an ancient sigill going back to their mother planet Earth from his neck. Like every servant of the Church worth his salt the former priest didn't give a damn for zodiacs and similar superstitious nonsense the pagan multitudes pinned their hopes on, but the necklace had been given to him by his colleagues for his 36th birthday, and now he counted his blessings that he had somehow felt obliged to wear it at work every now and then. Who would have thought that said piece of leather came in handy for an altogether different usage? Grinning Damien cut off a short piece and knotted the ends together. "I know that it's not up to your usual standard, but I will buy you a nice golden ring when we are safely in Ganji, Gerald. Just a few days in Father Gabriel's cloister to get you on your feet again, and we'll escape over the Dividers and leave this vulking madness behind. My sisters Jen and Marian will doubtlessly welcome the man who has managed to tame their brother with open arms, and they will battle for spoiling their newborn nephew, you'll see."

A forlorn expression passed over the adept's gaunt face, but before Damien could dig deeper Hawthorne visibly pulled himself together and reached for the amulet. "A Taurus, eh? I should have thought as much. A true family man when he's settled down. Stubborn, headstrong, loyal, persistent, not at all indisposed to the pleasures of the flesh. Presumably I should revise my rash judgement on the futility of astrology. Have I already mentioned 'stubborn'?"

"You have, Gerald. Twice, but as our friend Karril kindly pointed out a few hours ago in terms of stubbornness we were doubtlessly forged in the same furnace. Having said that I'd rather concentrate on the 'family man' aspect now. Give me your hand and speak your pledge if you aren't having second thoughts already concerning being lumbered with me for the rest of your life."

Hawthorne huffed and rolled his eyes, but he resolutely closed his slender fingers around Damien's calloused, blunt digits and solemnly recited the ancient vows without faltering once. "I, Gerald Hawthorne, take thee, Damien Kilcannon Vryce, to my wedded husband till death us depart, and thereto I plight thee my troth."

"And I, Damien Kilcannon Vryce, take thee, Gerald... Hawthorne, to my wedded husband, till death us depart, and thereto I plight thee my troth". Damien's voice wasn't nearly as composed as Gerald's and he barely managed to slip the improvised wedding band on the adept's left ring finger with his shaky hands, but in the end it was done, and the warrior knight kissed his husband's mouth and prayed silently that the Lord would continue to hold His protective hand over them.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"You have to do something, Damien. You are a healer! Why do you let him suffer like that?"

A horrified Karril had returned from his lonely vigil in the snow-covered hills, drawn back to the cave by his friend's gut-wrenching outcries. Things had indeed sped up after Gerald's waters had broken, and as the night progressed the labour pains had steadily increased from nasty to outright intolerable. With the beginning of the transition period the accursed contractions had become relentless, merging seamlessly without granting the adept so much as a brief respite to catch his breath, and shortly after midnight Gerald had been forced to abandon all restraint and had started screaming his mind to the heavens, his wordless shrieks of agony reverberating from the cave walls and ripping Damien's heart apart into bleeding little pieces until he thought he couldn't take it any longer. The warrior knight had come close to despairing, and his feelings had evidently been shared by the God of Pleasure who had used his dwindling resources of strength for sending Hawthorne a merciful illusion of analgesia. At the end of his tether Gerald had dozed off as soon as the cruel ache subsided, just to be jolted out of his sleep of utter exhaustion an hour later by an irresistible urge to push. Damien's well-meant advice to resist the impulse and breathe trough the contractions until their son had descended lower into the adept's pelvis had been met by bared teeth and a ferocious snarl which had caused Karril to retreat a few steps with a muttered Warding, and against his better judgement Damien had ceased his vain attempts to stem the tide and had settled for aiding his husband to the best of his abilities. The bearing-down pains had been no less excruciating despite coming further apart, and Hawthorne's desperate efforts had been peppered with curses, bloodcurdling yells and vicious death threats just in case Vryce dared to lay his hands on him ever again, but taking an active part in the process instead of just enduring the pain had seemed to help a bit, and for a short while Damien had cherished hopes that everything would turn out alright.

Gerald had certainly done his utmost to bear their son, fighting like a wild uncat for his unborn child's life and his own, but two hours later the foetus' head still hadn't entered the birth canal, and by now the warrior knight harboured strong doubts that a normal delivery would be possible at all. Right from the beginning Vryce had suspected that Gerald's male pelvis would complicate the matter, but he could have very well done without having his worst suspicions confirmed at a very inopportune moment.

"Something's wrong, Vryce. I can feel it."

Everything inside Damien screamed out denial, tried to convince himself and Gerald alike that everything was running smoothly and his husband would just have to hang on a little bit longer until their son finally saw the light of day, but he couldn't bring himself to lie. Gerald deserved better, deserved better than this horrendous ordeal in every respect of the word. The former Neocount of Merentha should at the very least lie in a clean, decent hospital bed with some competent obstetricians assisting at the birth instead of suffering agonies in this frozen hellhole with a fretting Iezu and a terrified, helpless healer who was at his wits end for his only company.

Damien had to face the bitter truth that the God of Pleasure had a point. He in fact had to do something, and quickly. The adept was rapidly losing ground as ache, exertion and blood loss were finally taking their toll and didn't even possess the strength required to remain on his hands and knees as he had been wont to for the better part of the last hours any longer. When he wasn't yelling and thrashing with unbearable pain Gerald lay apathetically on his back like a limp rag doll, and there was no mistaking the clammy skin and the flat, racing pulse for anything but the alarming danger signals of an impending collapse. To make matters worse as far as Damien could tell by means of his primitive stethoscope improvised hastily from a piece of thick not paper which had somehow found its way into his saddlebags Tory's heartbeats were getting fainter and more irregular. Plain and simple they needed a miracle or death would very likely claim them both, a thought which made the cold sweat break out on Damien's brow.

His frantic search for a loophole was abruptly cut off when Gerald arched his back and recommenced howling in pain like a dying animal, the tendons in his neck stretched taut as a bowstring and his death grip on Damien's fingers threatening to break the warrior knight's bones, and it felt like a small eternity until the adept's tortured body relaxed in his arms and the warrior knight was capable of exhaling the breath he hadn't even realized holding in. In the next instance Gerald drew a dagger from his right boot, and Damien's blood turned to ice water in his veins. What the hell…?

"Damien, you have to save Tory", Gerald gasped out hoarsely, and the warrior knight had to bring his ear close to the adept's mouth in order to understand him. "He mustn't die."

Vryce's capacity for coherent thinking was seriously impaired by the lack of sleep and the overwhelming fear of Gerald dying under his hands, and for a drawn out moment he just stared at Hawthorne in utter incomprehension, but as he understood at long last what was expected of him he started to sweat profusely in spite of the biting cold "For God's sake, Gerald, have you lost your mind? You don't really expect me to gut you like a dead fish, do you? Please don't ask this of me! I can't do it. I can't and I won't!"

Ice-cold fingers closed around his wrist like a vise of steel, and the dark eyes burning into his soul were flashing with an utterly familiar impatience and the very same defiant, unflinching determination the warrior knight would associate with the Hunter for the rest of his life. "You _will_ do this, Vryce. You will do it because there is no other way. I've told you before that I've no intention to die in this dismal cave. _'We use what tools we must' _ the Prophet wrote (BSR, page 185). And now roll up your sleeves and get to work before it's too late."

Petrified with horror Damien closed his eyes. This had to be a nightmare, worse than each and everyone the Hunter had created to squeeze the last drop of fear and horror out of his jittering soul. Shaking in his boots at the very thought of operating on his husband he notwithstanding had to admit deep down in his heart that possibly the adept had made the right decision and was seizing the one and only chance for survival he saw after he had coolly analyzed the situation and weighed the pros and cons. Usually undergoing the last stages of labour didn't quite encourage logical reasoning, but Gerald had always been one of a kind, and for a fleeting moment the warrior knight couldn't help but admiring him in spite of his crippling dread. Slowly, wearily, he accepted the dagger with trembling fingers and got up to stick the blade into the flickering flames of their small fire.

Turning round again he found himself face to face with Karril, an infuriated Karril who had shed any pretence of good humour and benevolence and rather resembled a ragewraith than the lusty, good-natured God of Pleasure Damien had gotten used to. "_Gut him like_ _a fish_? What are you up to, Vryce?" the Iezu boomed forbiddingly, and the scorching hot waves of rage radiating from him were almost palpable in the frigid winter night.

"I'm trying to save his life, Karril! Why the heck didn't the damned vain bastard help himself to good child-bearing hips when he had the chance? The baby's stuck, and if we let nature take its course this could theoretically go on and on for hours or even days until death comes as a release. Theoretically, but Gerald's condition is rapidly deteriorating, and you can take my word for it that he won't last that long. Not that the words of the most incompetent sad excuse for a healer who's ever walked this crazy planet counts for a lot", Damien added bitterly, "but if you don't trust my judgement remember that performing a Caesarean section was Gerald's idea, not mine. As usual he's right, and unless you come up with a vulking Iezu miracle there's no alternative. With the necessary instruments I could try to comminute the foetus' head and get him out piece by piece, but..."

Envisioning that appalling scenario Damien's vision abruptly narrowed to a tunnel, and he started swaying on his feet as if he had downed one helping too many of Karril's drugged wine. When he came halfway to his senses again he was sitting on the cavern floor with Karril's chubby arms supporting his shivering, sweaty body. "You alright? Dear Mother of the Iezu, if I were human you would have given me a heart attack the very moment you collapsed in a heap. I have pity on you, Damien, but going to pieces and losing yourself in the lamentable habit of wallowing in useless self-reproaches won't keep Gerald alive. He's always thought highly of your healing skills, and if you don't want to prove him wrong it's high time to pull yourself together and brief me on the procedure. Although I gathered information as soon as Gerald had managed to get himself knocked up the intricacies of human childbirth aren't among my favoured hobbyhorses, and in the light of what I've seen tonight that won't change anytime soon."

The warrior knight shuddered at the very thought of performing surgery on the adept, but with might and main he stifled his unspeakable horror and resigned himself to the gruelling task ahead. "I need your help, Karril. We can't wait till dawn, but instead of cutting him open in this inadequate lighting he might be better off if I slit his throat outright. In addition we don't have any anesthetics whatsoever. Gerald won't like what I have to do to him, and if he moves at the wrong moment..."

Speechless with fear Damien couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence, and sensing that his companion was just a bundle of nerves rapidly approaching a mental breakdown the God of Pleasure sighed inwardly and steeled himself for breaking bad news to the stricken priest. "I understand, Damien. Under normal circumstances it would be a piece of cake for me to send Gerald a pleasant dream and provide you with an illusion of bright light at the very same time, but bearing his agony and your despair in addition to the deplorable destruction of my temple and the butchering of my followers drained me of my strength. Even one of my kind has to replenish his energy now and then, and since I can't even imagine that you're able to hold up your former offer to masturbate for my benefit in your current state you will have to go for one them. I'm sorry."

Dumbstruck Damien dropped his aching head into his hands and choked down a sob. Merciful God in Heaven, Gerald had endured so much already and deserved to be spared further suffering, but he had no choice. The adept was barely responsive by now, and God grant that they would be able to hold him down with united forces until he graciously lost consciousness altogether, but he couldn't do without Karril's vulking illusion of daylight if he didn't want to represent the final nail in his husband's coffin. Laboriously Damien dragged himself to his feet and returned to Hawthorne's side after he had retrieved the damned dagger from the flames of their dying campfire, moving as if in a trance and utterly oblivious to the eerie howling of the wind and the Iezu's questioning glances. A few minutes later they had finished their hasty preparations and Gerald rested in Karril's lap who was clasping his arms with all his might while Damien had lowered his still considerable weight on the adept's legs. The sharp blade glinted menacingly in the light of the Iezu's illusion, and whispering the most heartfelt prayer of his life through gritted teeth the warrior knight brought down the dagger.


	13. Chapter 13

**Separation**

Disclaimer: I'm obviously not Ms Friedman, and therefore I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy.

Warnings: none but a lot of angst and inept writing, lol...

A/N: Decided to split this in two or maybe even three parts in order to avoid another outrageously long chapter.

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"I'll never see them again. I know that. And they know that. And knowing this, we say farewell." (Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore)_

_oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooo_

"Damien, you have to wake up! It stopped snowing quite a while ago, and they're coming!"

Dragging himself out of troubled dreams haunted by piercing cries of naked agony Damien came to with a start, and his cheeks were wet as if he'd wept in his sleep like a frightened child. Mercifully the adept had passed out as soon as he had made the first cut, and the warrior knight had somehow at long last managed to blend out all emotions and had bowed to his gruelling task like one of the legendary robots from their mother planet Earth. He faintly remembered rescuing his son from his prison of flesh and bone and holding a naked, limp bundle, the skin blueish from lack of oxygen under the coating of Gerald's blood and the chest eerily still, remembered putting his mouth on Tory's lips and breathing carefully into the tiny lungs until they commenced their proper function and the little one opened his mouth for his first scream, but after that everything had become a blur. Running purely on instinct he had refocused on the bleeding, motionless figure in the Iezu's lap and had sutured the operation wound by means of a thread he had pulled out of his coat seams and an improvised surgical needle which had been hastily constructed from a piece of wire pried off the ornaments on his cross-guard, but when Hawthorne had been tucked snugly into their blankets again exertion and mental strain had finally shattered the last barriers of his resolve, and he had dropped on the spot and joined his husband in his journey through the fathomless realms of utter oblivion until he was woken hours later by a very worried Iezu.

"One of your colleagues betrayed you under torture last night, and the hunters of your merciless god are on their way", the God of Pleasure blurted out agitatedly. "They are on their way to the cloister and will pass the cave in about an hour at most. Don't ask me how, but they know about it. It's a hell of a hunting party for catching two men, ten Knights of the Flame and thrice as much mercenaries at the very least. We can't stay here, priest!"

Realizing the bitter truth that there was nowhere to hide and no chance in hell to defend themselves against that big an array Vryce came close to panicking once again. His dreams had been bad, but reality was doing them more than justice. God knew what their overeager pursuers blinded by religious bigotry and plain human blood-lust alike would do to him if they managed to catch him alive, but Gerald's fate would be sealed, anyway. Without a doubt he would be burned alive along with their innocent son, and imagining their suffering an uncalled-for olfactory hallucination in form of the appalling smell of roasting human flesh violated his flaring nostrils and caused him to gag helplessly while horrendous images of torture and murder raced through his overwrought mind.

"Damien, please...". Karril's voice, urgent and pleading, relying on him. Why the hell was everybody always relying on him? He felt tired, so tired, mentally and physically exhausted to his very bones and weighed down by the crushing hopelessness of their situation.

_Cut the crap, you foolish bastard! You'd better stop wasting your time with lamenting about the vulking problems but think of a way out instead!_

Rubbing his itching stubble Damien sat up and faced the God of Pleasure who was cradling the sleeping baby in his arms, rocking him gently and cooing something that sounded suspiciously like fragments of an ancient lullaby. Utterly taken aback at the Iezu's behaviour Vryce blinked but decided to postpone any comments concerning their friend's stunning display of very human sentiments until later. If there was a '_later_', that is.

"Karril, can you Work? Your fabulous dragon or a veritable horde of nasty demons would suit us just fine, but under the given circumstances I would willingly settle for a more modest illusion hiding this wretched cave from prying eyes. Don't leave us in the lurch now. I can't battle them all, and without your help we're flat on our backs!"

A guilt-stricken expression passed over the Iezu's face, and the former priest could have sworn that the colours of his robes darkened slightly. "I'm so sorry, Damien, but right now I'm as weak as an unkitten. I used my last reserves for travelling halfway to Jaggonath and back on the fae currents to find out how the land lies and for an illusion of nourishment for your son's benefit, and if you need my powers I have to feed first."

"But you can get your vulking Iezu ass on horseback and ride, can't you?", the warrior knight challenged irritably. "Take Gerald's horse and get Tory and yourself to Father Gabriel's cloister. I would trust him with my life, and with regard to the fact that none of the damned bloodhounds has ever seen you in your current disguise you should be reasonably safe there. Tell them Tory's your orphaned grandchild or dredge up whatever fairy tale's more to your liking and keep yourself out of trouble. I'm going to stay here and hold them up as long as I can. Don't worry about me. I ... will catch up with you later."

"Haven't you forgotten something of vital importance, priest? What about Gerald?"

Good question. Fraught with worry and his heart hammering wildly inside his chest Vryce concentrated his attention on his husband who hadn't so much as stirred a limb since the warrior knight's rude awakening. Hawthorne's encounter with death had come too damn close for Damien's taste and didn't call for an encore, and he didn't even want to imagine the unbearable agony that had driven a man as tough as the former Hunter to squall in pain the way Gerald had done a few hours ago. Still deeply unconscious and the slow raising and falling of his chest barely discernible the adept's life was still hanging by a thread, and to move him now, barely alive and stitched up, was certain death.

"He can't ride, Karril", Damien replied miserably, "it would kill him".

A meaningful silence descended on them, spreading its dark wings over the cave like a suffocating blanket of utter despair, and when the God of Pleasure spoke up at long last his deep voice was unusually quiet, no more than a whisper half drowned in the howling winter storm, but the knowing dread in the Iezu's eyes was not to be mistaken. "You know what they will do to him, don't you?"

As if he could forget those horrifying spawns of his imagination which made his skin crawl with dread for a single moment. Closing his eyes to shut out the world and pulling together his last ounces of resolve the warrior knight reached for Gerald's dagger which was still smeared with his owner's blood. "Instead of having a damned snooze I should have built a sledge or a travois, but it's too late now. I have failed Gerald one time too many, Karril, but there's still one thing I can do for him, and I solemnly swear that those bastards won't get him alive. A cut through his carotid artery, and he won't even know what has hit him. '_The nature of the one God is mercy, and His word is forgiveness' (WTNF, p. 353)' _the Prophet wrote, and hopefully He will be a tad more understanding than His unscrupulous self-proclaimed henchmen on Erna."

"If you try to kill Gerald be prepared to fight an Iezu again before you meet your God, Damien. I'm your friend, but come what may I won't let you hurt him."

Suddenly furious Damien tensed up, ready to lash out at the God of Pleasure, but registering the dismal expression on Karril's face who gazed at Hawthorne with a mixture of pity and unveiled yearning he held his breath and goggled perplexedly as chubby, beringed fingers touched a pale cheek and gently brushed a strand of black hair out of the adept's still face. Since their horrendous detour to Tarrant's hell at the latest Vryce had suspected that nothing but strong ties of friendship could have caused Karril to repeatedly put his existence on the line by violating Iezu law, but evidently his feelings for Gerald went far beyond that, a somehow disconcerting insight. Calling himself three times a fool for indulging in a wholly inane surge of human jealousy while his world was collapsing all around him Damien pulled himself together and rested his fingers comfortingly on their companion's shoulder. A slight tremor passed through Karril's stout frame, but after a while he relaxed under Vryce's touch with a low sigh and gave Damien's hand a short squeeze.

"I'm no fool, and I'm well aware that being just half human I never had a chance, especially not after you turned up, priest", the God of Pleasure remarked with a lopsided sneer. "I've already told you that Gerald has the hots for you although he might never deign to admit that jarring weakness freely, but we had better hurry now instead of discussing our rather tangled state of affairs. I don't intend to stray into your healing territory, but as far as I can tell Gerald's heartbeat is quite strong and steady, and his body's young. I think we should take the risk that he won't survive our flight to the cloister and give him a fighting chance at the very least."

Dazedly the warrior knight wondered what the adept would do in his stead, and the answer came to him with surprising easiness. Without a doubt Gerald would do exactly what he had done not just last night but throughout his long existence: fight tooth and nails, against all odds, using everything he had and then some more. Damien felt ashamed. Come what may he wouldn't disgrace his husband by laying down arms and baring his throat for the kill but would risk life and limb for the safety of his small family to the last breath instead.

Without a further word Vryce sheathed the dagger and started to gather their meagre belongings, and in the blink of an eye the horses were saddled and Hawthorne was dressed in his stained, torn clothes again. Damien would have wagered a year's salary that under normal conditions the ever so vain, picky adept wouldn't have touched them with a barge pole, but fastidiousness doubtlessly had to take a back seat to more urgent matters now, matters like surviving the strenuous ride to Father Gabriel's cloister without freezing to death in the biting cold for instance.

Picking up his son and gazing at the little face in wide-eyed wonder Damien's heart clenched painfully inside his chest and his eyes started to burn with unshed tears. While he had been lost to the world the God of Pleasure had evidently busied himself with cleaning Tory of the layers of blood and vernix as far as circumstances permitted, and to the warrior knight's heartfelt relief the frightening blueish hue of the soft baby skin had evidently been replaced by a much more healthy rosy tint. Due to the fact that the baby didn't have to pass the birth canal no traces of newborn cranial deformation were detectable, and the round, perfect head was already topped by a veritable thatch of honey-blonde, silky hair which presumably would darken to a shade of light brown over time. Try as he might Vryce wasn't still quite able to fathom how the adept and himself had managed to produce this outright marvel, and he was aching to lay down at his husband's side with their son cradled safely between them and assure Gerald that he had done a heck of a job and he was so proud of them both, but they were starting to run out of time, and after a quick farewell kiss a peacefully slumbering Tory wrapped in several warm blankets found a reasonably convenient resting place in the most spacious saddle bag. Hastily the warrior knight ripped off a piece from the not paper he had used for the improvised stethoscope what seemed like ages ago and scribbled down a few sentences.

"Take this message to Father Gabriel, Karril. Although he's a monk he's got a kind heart and doesn't agree with the current abhorrent perverting of the Prophet's creation. I didn't reveal anything but that you're a dear friend who's burdened with saving my newborn son and my husband from a bunch of zealots gone wild, a husband who used to be a deplorable servant of the Lord of the Forest. Gabriel knows I loved the Hunter and possesses a sharp mind, but if we're lucky he won't ask too many questions. Just tell him what you think best and... keep Gerald and Tory out of harm's way."

Damien's voice failed him, and loosing his valiant battle to suppress an outburst of emotion very much against his will he couldn't force out another word past the growing lump in his throat. Giving in to a wave of grief so devastating that it threatened to choke the life out of him like one of the legendary tentacled sea monsters populating the depths of Novatlantis the warrior knight put his arms around Hawthorne and sobbed into the raven mane of hair as if his heart was breaking, but when he finally managed to brace himself for the inevitable separation and turned around his handsome face was eerily calm and determined under the layer of dirt and tears, and Karril felt a cold shiver of apprehension running down his illusional spine which would have made his hairs stand on end if he had been human. "So you'll stick to your plan and stay behind, Damien?" the Iezu inquired anxiously. "Gerald will give me hell for walking out on you. I presume I'll have a lot to explain when he comes around, and I'm not looking forward to that discussion."

A faint smile curled the corners of Damien's mouth, and his eyes were in a faraway place, lost in the memories of days gone by. "That makes two of us, although I can't quite imagine that the damned bastard will have a chance to pester me with his acerbic tongue ever again other than in heaven or, more likely, in hell. He might be a veritable pain in your arse at first, but Gerald's the most cold-blooded pragmatist I've ever encountered, and in the end that perfect survivalist will come to terms with my decision. You know him, presumably know him way better than I ever had the chance to, and that alone along with the fact that I was notably absent when he was struggling with carrying our son is the only thing I regret in my whole crazy life. Call me a fool, but I love him and wouldn't want to miss what I had with him for all the treasures of the world. Don't you forget to hammer that into his stubborn, proud head, Karril, and remind him that '_love is stronger than death_'! He'll know what I mean."

His voice threatened to break once again, and desperately trying to regain his composure Vryce drew a deep breath and balled his shaking hands into fists. "If Gerald... if it comes to the worst I hope Father Gabriel will take Tory under his wing", he whispered hoarsely, and Karril couldn't help but cringing at the abject misery on the priest's weary face. "With regard to his parentage he might aspire to a position in the Church one day when the days of madness are over, but he'll need a lusty, indecent Iezu godfather for balance as well. Keep a watchful eye on him and remember to tell him about the glorious vulking son of a bitch who had the balls to give birth to him. And now get going! We're wasting valuable time."

Without further ado the God of Pleasure mounted Gerald's stallion, and the adept was carefully hoisted up in front of him, wrapped in his cloak and the remaining blankets. "Meeting you has been an honour, Damien Kilcannon Vryce. I truly hope we will meet again."

"Just keep them alive, Karril. That's all I ask for. And now go and don't look back."

Silent and still as a stone Damien lingered at the cave's mouth and watched his family vanishing in the distance. Amazingly he didn't feel frightened or desperate any longer, but strangely elated and high spirited. For a long time he had been torn between conflicting loyalties towards his religious authorities and the Hunter, had chastised himself for the unspeakable betrayal of his faith by allying with evil incarnate, consenting to the outrageous blood bond with a vampiric demon, his forbidden feelings for Gerald Tarrant and his miserable failure at protecting the man he loved more than life itself in the bowels of the Hunter's keep, but now all doubts had finally come to an end, and he was dead certain which path he had to tread. Smiling grimly the warrior knight returned to their abandoned shelter and prepared himself for the final battle.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Keeper of Secrets**

Disclaimer: I don't own either the Coldfire Trilogy or the works of Roald Dahl.

Warnings: none really except a fair amount of angst (can't help but pitying Karril); those fellows need a breathing space before we proceed to the truly nasty stuff like torture, betrayal and doom... ;-)

A/N 1: Thanks so much for reviewing, Black Dragon's Ghost and Silvereyedbitch! Unfortunately there's no light at the end of the tunnel so far (what on Earth and Erna is a _'Woobie? _I just know a certain_ Wookie, _but I don't suppose you expect me to have poor Gerald growing fur? ;-)). Consider it my revenge for 'We'll go no more a roving' (grins evilly)... I warned right from the beginning that it won't be a happy story, didn't I? Apparently bullying your fellow author by ogling over my shoulder like a hawk and impatiently hopping from one foot to the other does help indeed, Silvereyedbitch... . Luckily I had almost finished this chapter when your _'intimidating'_ review arrived ;-). Well, I hope I managed to save your weekend although nobody's still much the wiser, lol!

A/N 2: I'd like to apologize to my readers for the terrible blunder of having Gerald out of his trousers in chapter 11 and fully clothed in chapter 12 again. Accidents _do_ happen, and let's just presume that with regard to the biting cold Damien put them on again when they had dried a bit... On top of my misfortune I belatedly realized that Tarrant talked about '_our_ mother', so transforming his brothers into mere half-brothers was pure bullshit. For one who tries to keep as closely to canon as possible that's an annoying mistake. Sorry! Some day when this story is finished I will revise it and fix those errors (and some omissions I won't let you in on now...;-)). Maybe I should forsake my pride and secrecy and get myself a beta. Sigh!

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"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it." (Roald Dahl)

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It was close to midday when Karril finally reached his destination, feeling completely winded. The desperate need to feed very nearly overwhelmed him, but he harboured strong doubts that a cloister populated by a bunch of celibate, pious monks could provide him with the required sustenance. The only _pleasures_ those servants of the One God tolerated in their sanctuary were very probably praying and the reading and copying of Holy Scriptures, not quite the fare he had in mind. For a moment Karril allowed himself a longing thought of his temple and its carnal delights, but he quickly banished those untimely reminiscences. The place of pagan worship which had been his home for centuries was gone, his followers either butchered or imprisoned in the dungeons of the Inquisition and doubtlessly envying the dead, and Gerald would have been the first one to state that it was no use crying over spilled milk. He simply had to function until the adept and his son were safe; everything else had to wait.

Scanning his surroundings the Iezu realized that this wretched place in the middle of nowhere certainly hadn't profited from the increasing popularity of the Church of Unification. The modest cloister merely consisted of a square principal building, some sheds and stables and a nondescript chapel with a small tower topped by two interlinking circles, and a certain air of neglect hovered over the snow-covered grounds. Wresting their livelihood from the barren soil the monks evidently hadn't had a moment to spare yet to replace several missing shingles on the chapel's roof which had fallen victim to the first late autumn storms and the walls could have done with a few buckets of paint, but in his current state Karril couldn't have cared less. Travelling in human form had its disadvantages, and he was more than willing to offer ten candles to his friends' One God or whatever entity willing to listen to his pleads when he could finally get off that blasted animal.

Unsurprisingly with regard to the biting cold threatening to freeze the marrow in one's bones no living soul was visible, but the sounds of a solemn hymn emitting from the chapel could be faintly heard over the fierce howling of the storm. Centuries of acquaintance with the former Prophet of the Law had left enough impact on his pagan deity self to teach the God of Pleasure that interrupting the monk's worship was anything but polite, but he had no choice, and church sensibilities had to stand back for the adept's need of warmth and medical treatment. Dismounting by no means an easy feat with an unconscious man in one's stiff arms the Iezu approached the entrance on horseback and knocked with a vigour, but several minutes passed ere the unadorned alteroak door opened and revealed a rather sour face grey with cold. Impatient ice-blue eyes widened and stared up to the Iezu's battered appearance and the dead weight he was cradling in his arms, and the Iezu fidgeted restlessly in his saddle until the young man in front of him had finally overcome his surprise and was able to force out a clipped greeting. "God's blessing, Mer. What can I do for you?"

"I have to talk to Father Gabriel at once", Karril answered brusquely without wasting valuable time on unnecessary preliminaries. "It's an urgent matter. My friend here is very sick, and..."

Whatever the God of Pleasure had intended to say got stuck in his throat when his speech was interrupted by a small whimper coming from one of his saddlebags, a sound rather resembling the meowing of an uncat than something produced by a human throat. The monk's eyes repeatedly wandered back and forth between the Iezu, Hawthorne, who was almost invisible inside his cocoon of blankets with the exception of several long, black strands of hair which had escaped his hood, and his saddlebags. The pinched face twisted with barely veiled contempt, and to his amusement Karril realized that the young man very probably had drawn his own conclusions concerning this strange group of travellers.

"I... understand. Please wait a moment." And off he was.

_No, my friend, I bet you don't,_ the Iezu thought dryly.

The doors opened again, and a lean, white-haired man in the grey robes of a friar stepped over the threshold, radiating natural authority and benevolence. A pair of intelligent, sparkling eyes surrounded by small laughter lines shone in an ascetic face, and hit by a warm wave of instant liking the God of Pleasure finally comprehended why Damien hadn't hesitated to entrust Gabriel with Gerald's and Tory's life. "My name is Karril. I'm a friend of Damien Vryce, and I'm in dire need of a sanctuary for the priest's husband and their son. The little one was born in the small hours of the morning, and Gerald's still in critical condition. You have to help us!"

Gabriel's features hardened, and Karril could have kicked himself for his incoherent ramblings and his momentary impotence. "'_The priest's husband and their son'_? Although I'm a monk, Karril, or whatever your true name, I'm not altogether worldly innocent, and I know the basics concerning human reproduction. Even if you aren't simply a demon sent to tempt me with your hellish insinuations and I take it for face value that the creature in your arms is truly Vryce's _husband_ of all things expecting me to believe that a human man has miraculously given birth to a child is a tall order, don't you think so?"

"Gerald's an adept, and trust me he's not the first of that kind who's tried the impossible", the God of Pleasure answered tightly, cursing the damned stubbornness of church representatives in general and this one's in particular. "Adepts are a secretive lot, and usually they don't hang a lantern on their failures. He's the first one who's survived so far, and I would appreciate it very much if it stayed that way. But we have to hurry, man of the church. A posse consisting of several Knights of the Flame and a few dozen mercenaries are hot on our heels. Read Vryce's letter if you don't believe me."

Paling visibly by the second the old monk went through the few lines Damien had managed to write, and when he had finished the letter his pale blue eyes were wide with unveiled anxiety. "I don't know why the Inquisition's set its mind on hunting you down, but are you even remotely able to fathom what's going to happen to this place of God if they find you here? We could all end up at the stake!"

"I've never bothered with your Holy Scriptures so far, but according to the priest the founder-father of your faith taught that _'the nature of the one God is mercy' _(quote see chapter 13). Maybe you should take that into consideration before you abandon two hapless travellers and an innocent newborn to their fate", Karril replied quietly without raising his voice, but the quotation of the Prophet's famous theorem hit home like the bells heralding the day of doom nonetheless. Stricken Gabriel closed his eyes and moved his lips in what the Iezu believed to be a silent prayer, but when he finally got a grip on himself and faced the God of Pleasure again his wrinkled face showed an expression of utter determination. "We're also taught that the Lord moves in mysterious ways, blessed be His name. Forgive me for my selfishness, stranger. You shall find shelter here, but I have to inform my brothers first that they have to keep quiet concerning your arrival. I'll be back with you soon."

Gabriel turned round on his heels with astounding agility for a man pushing his seventies and vanished inside the chapel again, but it didn't take long until he reappeared in great haste with the irritable young monk in tow and held his arms out towards Karril. "Give him to me. I'm not so old and weak that I can't carry such a slender burden. You can leave your mount here. Brother Martin will take care of it."

The adept was hoisted off the horse and Karril finally dismounted, inwardly increasing the amount of the offered candles from ten to twenty, but regardless of Damien's deep conviction that Gabriel could be trusted and his own liking of the old man he insisted on carrying Gerald himself and burdened the friar with his saddlebags instead. Inside the cloister they walked through meandering passages until they entered a small study which apparently represented Gabriel's private refuge. Without hesitation the old monk approached a book-rack stacked with ancient, leather-bound volumes and pulled out the first book from right on the top shelf, and Karril's jaw dropped in a perfect mimicry of human behaviour when the whole rack swung back and revealed an utterly lightless space. The Iezu's misgivings returned with a vengeance, and he braced himself for an ambush when he followed the monk over the threshold. Maybe Gabriel would show his true colours now, trapping them inside this hole until their persecutors arrived and they could be handed over into the hands of the Inquisition, but in this case the traitor would be in for an unpleasant surprise. The God of Pleasure might be at the end of his tether and unable to Work, but he didn't carry Gerald's dagger at his side just for the fun of it, and he had no intention whatsoever of letting harm have a closer look at his deplorable friend without putting up a good fight. To hell with his mother's outdated non-interference policy!"

Karril shouldn't have worried though, because when Gabriel lit a candle the room turned out to be anything but a prison cell despite its smallness. The stone paving tiles and walls were covered by brightly coloured rugs, and the better part of the cramped space was occupied by a huge, solid alteroak table and a dark-brown basket rocking chair, leaving just enough room for a narrow but rather convenient looking bedstead complete with pillows and a stack of blankets in the fashion of the hand-woven carpets. Slightly more at ease the God of Pleasure shifted the much too light burden on his arms and raised a dark eyebrow in unvoiced question.

"Don't be surprised, Karril. I'm a keeper of many secrets", the old monk chuckled softly, "but that has to wait until later. This closet was constructed centuries ago to protect relics and other items of value in times of trouble, and only the current abbot knows about it. Now war's looming over our heads once again, and what could be more sacred and treasured than the life of a cherished friend? You gave me a nasty shock when you appeared on our doorstep out of the blue, but in fact I prepared the chamber for Damien several weeks ago just in case his cover blew and he had to make a quick escape from Jaggonath, albeit until half an hour ago I hadn't thought it possible that it would serve as a hiding place for his husband and son one day. Let's postpone exchanging more confidences until I've had a look at that poor man, though. Just lay him down on the table and get him out of those filthy rags while I fetch water and some necessary instruments from our infirmary. The little one can rest on the bed for now", Gabriel added with a good-natured smile. "We don't have cradles up here, as you might be able to imagine."

The quiet authority in the monk's voice was permeated by a trace of dry humour now, and the Iezu barely managed to suppress an amused snicker. He could have told Father Gabriel a thing or two about clergymen, their carnal desires and the resulting need of cradles, but thought better of it. Why angering the man who had decided to endanger his religious community by helping them in their hour of need?

Karril had just removed Hawthorne's clothing when Gabriel returned, carrying a basin with hot water, some towels and a leather bag containing a choice of medical instruments and remedies. When his gaze fell on the unconscious adept resting on the table the old monk froze and blanched. "Merciful God in heaven, he's but a child!"

Despite feeling unsettlingly close to involuntarily returning to his normal form of appearance due to sheer exhaustion the Iezu very nearly gave in to a wholly inappropriate bout of mirth. "I can assure you that Gerald is older than he looks", he retorted with a grin. "We've known each other for a long time now."

The monk's blue eyes met his own, trying to weigh his soul, and with a start Karril realized that his piercing stare somehow remembered him of Gerald Tarrant in spite of the different colour of the iris. "I just wonder how long _'a long time'_ is in your case. Rumours have it that adepts were capable of prolonging their natural life span by means of selfish sorcery although the wild tales about it might be fairly exaggerated, but yet... " Gabriel cut himself off and shook his head. "Let's drop that topic now and see what I can do for him before your pursuers arrive. It's no use wasting our time with foolish speculations."

Although after centuries of experience perfectly able to mimic a human body and he had gathered as much information as possible when Gerald had set his brilliant brains on getting himself knocked up Karril was by no means an expert in human anatomy, and most of the medical examinations carried out by the monk would remain an eternal mystery to the Iezu. Some obviously weren't too pleasant, and when Gerald was moaning softly while about half of the monk's lower arm vanished inside his body the God of Pleasure winced in sympathy and heaved a sigh of relief as Gabriel finally stepped back and washed his hands stained with blood and other unpleasant body fluids in the basin.

"I'm finished, Karril. You can move your friend to the bed now and tuck him in. On your arrival he was dangerously close to being hypothermic, and in his weakened state he mustn't get cold again under any circumstances. I will have an herbal infusion accelerating the formation of blood and a cordial prepared for him in a minute, but other than that and praying for him there isn't much I can do."

"What are you talking about?" the Iezu inquired apprehensively. "In all the long years of my existence I've never seen anybody suffering agonies like Gerald did and I don't care to repeat that experience, but after the ordeal is over he has to be out of the woods now, hasn't he? Just a few days of rest to get him back on his feet and..." Registering the portentous expression on the monk's features Karril's illusional breath hitched in his throat and his deep voice trailed off.

"The best which can be said of your friend's condition is that he definitely has got a strong will to survive, Karril. Otherwise he would have died last night, without question. I don't have much practice concerning problems arising in childbed, not to mention than in nigh to seventy years I've never encountered an anatomy as weird as your friend's, but in my humble opinion a natural birth wouldn't have been possible. Choosing a Caesarean was the only option they had."

The horrific memory of having to bear the adept's pain and Vryce's bottomless desperation alike descended on the God of Pleasure like a raptor on his hapless prey, and a shiver passed through his sturdy body. "Damien refused to _'gut him like a fish'_ at first, but Gerald can be rather insistent when he has set his mind on something. He's always had guts, and I've never met braver men than him and his husband. But let's not beat around the bush, as our blunt mutual friend the priest would say. What are his chances? And how is Tory?"

"Well, I haven't examined the little one properly yet, but although he was evidently born much too early I believe Damien's son stands a good chance of staying alive if no perinatal complications arise. A premature baby may have trouble breathing due to an immature respiratory system, you know, but for the time being he seems to be doing fine, and he just has to be kept warm and under careful observation. We've got a small herd of nugoats up here, so feeding shouldn't be a problem.

"As for his _other_ father, carrier or whatever term you choose to prefer I just don't know, Karril'", the old monk continued gravely. "I'm sorry, but I think fobbing you off with empty promises and comforting lies is no use to man and beast. Mer Hawthorne is seriously underweight, and he must have been ill for a long time before he went into labour. Without further information I can only presume that his male body failed to properly adapt to the pregnancy, and undergoing emergency surgery in a cave didn't exactly ameliorate his condition. As far as I can judge Damien Vryce did a good job; there are no hints of an infection so far and the stitches are still holding despite your flight on horseback, but your friend lost a lot of blood, and his general state of health is outright disastrous. As long as there's life there's hope, but he's still hovering between life and death, and the next few days will be crucial. If he survives at all he will doubtlessly need a long time to recuperate, rest, warmth and sufficient nourishment to get some meat back on his bones. But if the bleeding starts anew or he catches a fever..."

"Damien..." The barely audible whisper cut through the meaningful silence like a blade, and both men rushed to the invalid's side.

"Dear Mother, I think he's recovering his senses at last. Gerald, can you hear me?" Fraught with worry Karril clasped his friend's groping hands, offering him comfort, but although the black lashes fluttered the adept was too weak to open his eyes.

"Mer Hawthorne, I'm Father Gabriel, a friend of Damien. How do you feel?"

"Damien!" The desperate pleading in the weak voice tugged at Karril's metaphorical heartstrings, and against his better judgement he succumbed to a bout of irrational anger. Why had the blasted priest been so honourable and courageous and stayed behind? _Because otherwise Gerald wouldn't be here in relative safety but on his way to torture and death if those bastards hadn't finished him off on the spot, you bloody idiot._

Carefully the monk picked up Tory from his nests of blankets and placed him gently in the crook of Hawthorne's left arm, the baby's head resting close to his chest. Now the dark eyes did open, and for a fleeting instance there was awareness in them. The corners of Gerald's mouth curled into the ghost of a smile, and when the former Hunter vainly struggled to raise his trembling arm for an instinctive embrace in utter disregard of his nature and aspect Karril's heart wept for him although he had no actual tears to shed . Much too soon the lucid moment passed though, and the adept drifted back into unconsciousness again.

Gabriel shook his head and sighed. "Let's leave them just like that for a while. It's good for the baby to hear his father's heartbeats, and the close proximity of his own flesh and blood might help your friend as well and call him back to life. The human soul is a strange, unknown country, and there are few instincts stronger than parental love. Let's hope for the best."

Straightening the monk turned round to face the Iezu. "I'd like to talk to you, Karril. There are some urgent matters for us to discuss, and I think I might have an eye-opener or two in store for you, but with regard to your pursuers I'd rather move to the study and close the secret door to avoid a nasty surprise. I can't imagine the Knight's of the Flame storming a cloister, at least not as long as they don't know for sure that you're hiding here, but we should take no risks. Notwithstanding your ailing friend can't be left alone, and if you don't mind I'd like to charge Brother Mark with keeping vigil at his bedside. Admittedly the youngest in our midst is a bit peculiar, but he's a kind, gentle soul, and I would trust him with my life without a second thought."

"'_Peculiar_'?" That didn't sound promising to Karril. Over the last odd years he had had more than enough _peculiarities_ including a sadistic sibling going on the rampage, a trip to hell, the killing of his followers and last but not least assisting at a Caesarean to last him several human lifetimes, thank you very much.

"Well, I don't know whether Brother Mark's mother was just a sorceress or an adept, but she had the Sight, and apparently he inherited part of her abilities", the old monk explained tentatively. "The poor woman was burned to death in her hut during a witch hunt in the wake of an epidemic. People were scared, and they blamed her for the deaths of their loved ones. Her son was still an infant, barely five years old, and hiding in the woods nearby he had to listen to his mother's screams until death relieved her of her sufferings. That happened sixteen years ago, but he still gets nightmares about it. A devout pedlar found the starving boy and brought him to us, and as he got older he decided to consecrate his whole life to God."

Remembering Gerald's bloodcurdling outcries and his devastating feeling of utter helplessness the God of Pleasure didn't doubt for a second that such a horrendous childhood trauma was very well capable of haunting the young monk to his dying day, but nonetheless he still felt a tad suspicious, and when Hawthorne's life was at stake he was just as little inclined to taking chances as Gabriel. "I suppose his '_peculiarity_' doesn't just consist of having bad dreams?" Karril challenged with a frown.

"Of course not. As I've already mentioned Brother Mark possesses some uncanny abilities. He perceives things we can't, sees auras, for example, and he believes that the Lord speaks to him. Some of my brothers consider him out of his mind and are wary of him, although I assure you he's completely harmless. Usually he busies himself with our animals, singing psalms and praying while he tends to them. It might sound rather pretentious to your pagan ears, but in my opinion he's been touched by God's hand who saved him for a special fate", Gabriel added with a faint smile and kissed the golden interlinking circles hanging from his neck by a delicate chain.

_I just wonder what he's going to say about Gerald's aura_, Karril mused wryly. Hopefully the mortal wouldn't have a fit or drop dead with shock outright.

Proving all concerns wrong the God of Pleasure was instantly taken with Brother Mark, a short, black-haired man with a cherubic face dominated by strikingly grass-green eyes. Coming face to face with the adept the young monk fortunately hadn't thrown a tantrum but had graced the motionless figures on the bed with a heart-warming smile, and using his last ounces of strength for reading his heart and mind in order to avoid a potentially lethal error the Iezu had only found kindness and a profound love of God and His creatures great and small. His suspicion somewhat allayed Karril cast a last, anxious glance at his unconscious friend and followed Gabriel into his study.

After kindling a fire which was burning merrily in the fireplace by now Brother Mark had been sent on an errand to prepare the direly needed remedies and get some goat milk and a spare schema which had to pass as an impromptu nightgown for Hawthorne. On his return the young monk had also carried two shot glasses and a flask of a bitter, home-made herbal liqueur which doubtlessly possessed ample potency to kill off any unfortunate bacteria trying to attack the monks' health. As far as Karril was concerned it could have woken the dead from their eternal slumber, and gulping it down he shuddered and inwardly thanked the Iezu Mother that due to his nature he didn't have to rely on digesting anything as vile as this malevolent liquid, but familiar with human habits and customs and quite certain that it took more to kill one of his kind he grudgingly accepted the offer of a second helping.

"If I understand you correctly your friend Gerald used to be one of the unfortunate servants of the Hunter who repented his sins and came back to the light after his master's downfall?"

Karril wouldn't have considered it wise to wager his existence on Gerald's capability for repenting just _anything_ and settled for a noncommittal nod. This wasn't going to be easy. The monk was no fool, and without a doubt he had already detected a lot of gaping holes in the fairy tale he had just been told. Whatever his source of information according to Vryce he knew that the priest had loved the Hunter, and now he was confronted with a stranger closely affiliated to the Lord of the Forest who had miraculously given birth to a child, a child sired by the very man who had defied the laws of his Church and had allied with a creature called the Darkest Prince of Hell with good reason. That stank of sorcery and would have been enough and to spare to give more stupid men than Gabriel some food for thought, and the God of Pleasure wasn't altogether keen on picturing the monk's reaction when he finally found out about the chain of events which had taken place in Jaggonath yesterday. Yesterday! To Karril it felt like ages.

"Certainly you're well aware that your story doesn't even begin to explain why the Inquisition is set on hunting you down, and I can't help asking myself which matters of vital importance you left out deliberately, but I don't blame you for your secrecy", the old monk commenced with a cryptical smile. "Trust has to be earned, and it's plain obvious that you're bound and determined on protecting your unfortunate companion. That redounds to your honour, Karril, who- or whatever you are. You've got a kind nature and care about your friends a lot more than many human beings are wont to, but although your disguise is rather perfect I'm sure you weren't born a man. Don't be offended, my friend. I won't press you for informing me about your origin if you'd rather keep things to yourself, and your secret is safe with me. But let _me_ tell you a story now for a change. It isn't a pretty tale, but it's worth listening to. Not many people are informed that I'm related to the Tarrants. You know the name, don't you? I think you know the name very well, and so does Damien's husband. Andrys, the last Neocount of Merentha, was my nephew."

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Postscriptum: I know that Andrys was supposed to be Gerald's last living descendant, but the idea of Gabriel being his uncle was just too tempting for me to resist...


	15. Chapter 15

**A vision of Armageddon  
**

Disclaimer: I still don't own the Coldfire Trilogy

Warnings: none in particular

A/N: Sorry for the lack of action and the tons of blarney I'm about to heap upon you, but some things just have to be explained and the stage prepared for further events...

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead." (Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanack)**  
**

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Now that was indeed an eye opener for the Iezu, and he stared at the monk in complete bewilderment. "Your _nephew_?"

"Exactly. I was the firstborn and heir to the estates, and when I came of age my father told me the ghastly personal history of the first Neocount of Merentha, _Gerald_ Tarrant who's nowadays known as the Prophet of the Law, and his gruelling pact with the forces of the dark. The old man was wise and believed each and every word of the appalling stories about the founder of the Tarrant line who still haunted the world at its darkest hours after the passing of a millennium, and he warned me never to claim the title of Neocount under penalty of a terrible death. He meant well, but he could have spared his breath", Gabriel went on with his story. "I had always felt the calling to serve the Lord, and titles and holdings never had any interest for me. Nevertheless I carried out my duties and married the genteel, docile woman my father had picked for me, but when my wife Mariah and our two children died at her sister's home during the terrible quake of 1409 I left everything to my younger brother Reginal and knocked at the gate of this very cloister nigh to thirty-eight years ago. Before I departed for good I tried to talk some sense into that foolish man so thirsty for glory, but he wouldn't listen. Accepting sound, well-intentioned advice has never represented a characteristic trait of our family, I'm afraid."

A sad, rueful smile graced the old monks lips, and he shook his head. "That was his first mistake, the second evidently keeping his own heir in ignorance of the very real threat lurking behind the whispered tales about an eerie streak of bad luck running like a common thread through our family history. Sometimes I wonder if I hadn't been so selfish, if I had been more insistent... I should have known that nothing good would come out of my withdrawal, but I fled the troubles of the mundane world to find some peace in the presence of God who, in His infinite wisdom, chose to send Reginal His angel of death before he could try to put his ambitious plans into action. You might call me insane, but down to the present day I consider him luckier than his doomed children. Well, to make a long story short his eldest son Samiel proclaimed himself Neocount at the age of twenty-five and was hacked to pieces with the rest of his siblings and relatives. Except of myself and poor, deranged Andrys who was spared to continue the bloodline, of course."

Father Gabriel leaned back in his armchair and sipped on his glass, arching an elegantly curved eyebrow in an utterly familiar fashion which along with his piercing glance and the delicate bone structure of his visage still clearly visible under the age-related skin alterations was more than sufficient to resolve all of Karril's doubts concerning the verisimilitude of the monk's astounding tale. "And that leads us to the second secret", the prior calmly continued with a straight face which would have done his ancestor proud, "although I suspect you know the facts better than I do. When my nephew was dying of heart failure a few month ago he sent for me. His poor wife Narilka was worried sick and cursed the day her husband had agreed to lead the crusade against the Hunter, but Andrys himself strangely didn't fear death at all. In fact the lad seemed almost relieved, as if a long, long nightmare was finally coming to an end. Nevertheless he suffered from terrible guilt pangs and begged me to hear his confession. And now guess what he told me on his death bed!"

If Karril had been fully human he would have started to sweat profusely by now, but being a Iezu he just shrugged and buried his nose in his glass.

"It would be a repulsive sin to betray the seal of confession, so let's just say that my pitiful nephew wanted to ease his conscience because he had been part of a strange charade, a charade initiated by a man who should have crumbled into dust an era ago. Let's also take into consideration that, just philosophically speaking, of course, on a planet as wondrous as Erna just the identity of his ancestor could have died that day while his soul and memories survived the process. Have you ever heard of shape-shifting, by the way?" Gabriel added casually, and horrified beyond words the God of Pleasure winced at the allusion and downed his second drink in one swig to cover his anxiety.

Evidently their own streak of bad luck wasn't at an end yet, and by a cruel twist of fate on top of their recent misfortunes they were now confronted with a confidant who was privy to the eerie occurrences which had taken place deep down in the bowels of the Hunter's keep that fateful day or at least suspected what had truly come to pass. Obviously the mere _knowing_ didn't jeopardize Gerald's existence, because otherwise the whole enterprise would have been doomed to failure right from the beginning. Andrys at the very least had known all the time, had probably even witnessed the final transformation which had '_killed_' the identities of Gerald Tarrant, the Neocount of Merentha and the Prophet of the Law in one sweep, and the priest and himself had had knowledge of the adept's survival for months now without Hawthorne disintegrating into thin air.

_Talking_ about Gerald's bargain however other than in the most impersonal, roundabout way the adept had brought to bear when he had sought the priest out on Black Ridge Pass was an altogether different matter, and Karril wasn't quite able to fathom how Tarrant's unworthy descendant had managed to let the uncat out of the bag without causing his ancestor's immediate demise. Maybe his latest crazy compact wasn't as binding as the former Hunter had imagined, something well worth delving into when they ever found a moment of peace and quiet again and didn't have to run for their dear lives for once, not to mention that Gabriel hadn't exactly raised his hopes that Gerald would live through this mess at all. Be it as it may for now there were more urgent matters at hand, and the Iezu prepared himself for the worst.

Ultimately Karril didn't doubt the old monk's benevolent nature and his integrity, but it wasn't too far fetched a thought that having the miscreant completely and utterly at his mercy Gabriel would forget all about his promise to provide shelter for them and retaliate for the murdering of his relatives instead. After all he could kill his ancestor just by saying his true name! The God of Pleasure stifled a sigh. He liked humans and was quite smitten with Gabriel's unquestionable charms, but when it came down to Gerald he had set his priorities straight long since, and he would stop at nothing to aid the man he had come to treasure far beyond the limitations of his nature.

Cursing the bitchy fates the God of Pleasure put his empty glass on the novebony side table and braced himself for the inevitable confrontation. "And what are your aims now after you have let me in on your fascinating _speculations_, man of the church?" he forced out between gritted teeth. "Are you going to renege on your promise and try to betray us to the enemy? In this case you had better make peace with your god. I'm a symbiont and not in the least prone to harming humans, but Vryce charged me with cherishing his husband like life itself, and I intend to follow his orders."

Utterly unfazed by the barely veiled threat Gabriel looked straight in the menacing face of his guest without so much as batting an eyelash. "I'm and old man, and my life's in God's hand, anyway. Unlike the better part of the pagan multitudes I'm not in the least afraid to meet the Creator and account for my deeds, and hence you can spare your feeble attempts at bullying me into submission, Karril. A friend in need is a friend indeed though, and I won't hold your concern for Mer _Hawthorne_ against you. Don't you worry! It's not for me to judge but for the One who watches over us all, and I'm giving you my word of honour that I will do everything in my power to keep the three of you alive. The Tarrants might have many faults, but violating an oath isn't amongst them."

All at once the old monk's grave face brightened visibly, and a radiating smile passed over his ageing features. "Even if I were intent on taking vengeance upon your companion for a purely _hypothetical_ wrong I would spare him just for the sake of the debates on Church history we can indulge in when he's up and about again", Gabriel chuckled impishly. "Just to be able to talk to _him_, to discuss the foundations of our faith with that very man is a stunning prospect indeed. Not in my wildest dreams I would have dared to imagine that! But let's focus on the present problems for now. What happened to our friend Damien? Surely he didn't abandon his family by his own choice?"

"I don't know what has become of him. Vryce stayed behind to buy time for our escape, and if I'm not very much mistaken he didn't expect to set eyes on us ever again other than in your afterlife", the God of pleasure replied miserably. "I'm deeply indebted to him, and Gerald's going to skin me alive if his favourite priest comes to grief."

Gabriel breathed a sigh. "Sometimes it's hard even for the faithful not to quarrel with the Lord, Karril. He indeed moves in mysterious ways we more often than not fail to comprehend with our limited human mind, but take comfort in the fact that nothing happens without a reason. Damien told me about Mount Shaitan and that the Hunter saved our world against all odds after a millennium of committing atrocities beyond human reckoning. If he hadn't been an undead abomination he wouldn't have been able to withstand the raw power of the earth fae long enough to bind that evil demon Calesta to him and mankind would have fallen into darkness for all eternity. Gerald Tarrant saved us all with his altruistic sacrifice up there on the volcano, and that alone should earn him redemption in the eyes of the Lord. Nothing else matters. In my humble opinion God chose Damien to guide His fallen prophet back to the light, and He won't forsake one of His own in his hour of need. Don't give up hope! As soon as your persecutors are off again I'll have a rogation read for that poor, tormented soul, but..."

The prior cut himself off when the door of the study flew open and a flustered monk appeared on the threshold. "Knights of the Flame are waiting at our gates, Father", the portly, middle-aged man huffed agitatedly. "They want to talk to you at once!"

Jumping to his feet Gabriel cast the Iezu a meaningful glance, and without a second of hesitation Karril got up and made for the hidden chamber just to be faced with a rather unexpected tableau. Gerald was still oblivious to his surroundings, but as far as the Iezu could tell in the dim light of the single lamp a hint of colour had returned to his emaciated face, and his breathing was quiet and steady. Brother Mark had made himself comfortable at the adept's side, humming a psalm while alternating between administering the medicine he had fetched from the cloister's infirmary spoon by spoon and quieting Tory's hungry cries of protest by means of an improvised feeding bottle. Although it had obviously been constructed rather hastily it fulfilled its duty, and the baby was sucking the nugoat milk contentedly, his blue eyes closed in rapture. Not in the least keen on disturbing the most peaceful scene the God of Pleasure had witnessed in many hours he noiselessly lowered himself on the ground and took Hawthorne's hand, resigning himself to a patient vigil at his unconscious friend's bedside once again.

Long minutes passed ere the hidden door opened again and revealed Gabriel's grim visage. "They're gone to hunt their elusive quarry elsewhere, but I'm afraid I have to break bad news to you, Karril. Their spokesman solely inquired if we had encountered an heretical sorcerer or _demon_ in the guise of a pregnant, black-haired youth, but there was no talk of our friend Damien. That's not a good omen, as far as I'm concerned. Either they captured him alive, or..."

The prior trailed off uncomfortably, but the Iezu knew only too well what had been left unsaid. Without a doubt the adept represented the main prey of the hunt, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that those narrow-minded idiots had abandoned the search for the man who had killed Summers and one of his former brothers in arms to save a creature considered evil incarnate. If the priest hadn't fallen into their hands alive he had to be dead, and the God of Pleasure didn't even dare to imagine what Gerald would do to him when he regained consciousness at last and found himself a widower before he even had the chance to consummate the marriage. Karril hung his head and groaned. If there truly was an afterlife of any kind whatsoever for the Iezu who had had the misfortune to draw the ire of a certain adept he could only hope that he wouldn't be doomed to spend eternity in Calesta's unpleasant company.

A comforting hand on his shoulder brought him back to the here and now. "Let's not mourn somewhat prematurely, my friend", the old monk murmured soothingly. "I saw quite a lot of bloodied faces and provisional bandages, and the knights and their worldly henchmen were in a foul mood. Whatever happened to Damien he evidently put up a good fight until they finally overpowered him, and maybe they just split up and sent the badly wounded and their prisoner back to Jaggonath. I'm well aware that you don't want to leave Gerald's side, but could you do me the favour to watch out for Vryce? In God we trust, but it also said that Heaven helps those who help themselves..."

_Crap!_ Dumbfounded Karril shook his head. "If you need my services I have to feed first, but I seriously doubt that you are willing to offer me the fare I need."

The monk's eyes narrowed in a very Gerald-like fashion, and the Iezu thought he could almost hear the gears inside his old head moving. "So you can't digest human food, my friend? What _do_ you require? Blood?"

"As I've already told you I'm not a parasite but a symbiont, and I feed on human lust and in turn enhance the pleasurable sensations of my followers. Admittedly that might not be in line with the doctrines of your faith, but in all likelihood you could call it a fair bargain."

Father Gabriel's jaw dropped, and he stared at his guest in wide-eyed wonder. "You are the God of Pleasure, and it was your temple those misguided souls stormed yesterday! You cannot imagine the stories I've been told, Karril! At first I thought that the mercenaries had drunk themselves out of their mind, but now I'm not so sure about that any longer. Do _you_ know where that dragon came from all at once? No, don't tell me", the old monk corrected himself hastily. "There are things between heaven and Erna which had better remained a mystery to the faithful. Just promise me you won't tempt my brothers to indulge in acts they renounced for good when they knocked at the gates of our cloister."

The last sentence was accompanied by a twinkle in the eye, and despite his worries Karril couldn't suppress an amused chuckle. Gabriel was a treasure, and under different circumstances he might have been inclined to tempt the monk himself despite his advanced age. Beauty was definitely an asset, but sometimes wit and courage proved to be more attractive than a perfect face. And then there were the rare occasions when everything came together. As in Gerald.

All mirth deserted Karril in the blink of an eye, and he felt more tired and depressed than a Iezu whose human body was a mere illusion had any right to be. All he wanted to do was to rest at the adept's side and shield him from the dangers lurking all around them, committing himself to fight Gabriel's angel of death if he dared to approach on his raven black wings, but he knew very well that he indeed had to feed, and soon. Travelling on the fae currents back to Jaggonath would very likely cost him all his remaining energy, but he had to take action before he became too weak to look for sustenance at all.

"Unless neither you nor one of your monks have second thoughts concerning your vow of chastity I have to bid you farewell for a few hours at the very least until I've replenished my energy. Thanks to the butchers of your merciless god my temple has been blown to pieces and my followers are either dead or imprisoned, but Jaggonath's whorehouses offer pleasure aplenty", Karril answered with a lop-sided grin. "While I'm away I will keep my eyes and ears open in order to find out what fate has befallen the priest, but promise me that you will take good care of Gerald during my absence. I bear you no ill will, but I'm prepared to test the limits of my aspect if he comes to harm within these walls."

The prior slowly shook his head. "I can't blame you for your resentment after all that's happened, Karril, but notwithstanding you're confusing matters of vital importance. Those men who attacked your pagan place of worship and murdered in the name of the Lord are nothing but victims of the Devil's hellish insinuations. The One God isn't a god of fire and sword but of love and mercy. Remember the famous words of our venerated Prophet you quoted so fittingly on your arrival! We live in dark times, my friend, but surely our Lord will get those lost souls back on the straight and narrow again, and one day..."

Gabriel stopped in midsentence when Brother Mark suddenly ceased his low humming and faced them with his huge, luminous eyes. His visage was lit by an angelic smile, and there was something so eerie, so unearthly about that facial expression that it made Karril's skin crawl. Until he had been confronted with several mortals who had fallen prey to his sibling Calesta's suggestions he had never given a damn for the religious humbug about demonic possession which had transformed Gerald's childhood into a living hell, but now he could almost feel another, well, _presence_ lurking behind the inconspicuous facade, and daring a fleeting glance at the prior he realized that the old man was no less enthralled than himself.

"What's the matter, Brother?", Gabriel inquired with a worried frown. "Anything amiss?"

The young monk gazed tenderly at the newborn still cradled in his arms. "I just had a vision, Father, a vision sent by God. He told me to guard this little angel from harm. Can't you see the golden glow surrounding him?"

"You know very well that God hasn't deemed it fit to grace me with that unique skill. I will just have to rely on you", the prior replied kindly, but there was no mistaking the slight tremor in his voice and the shaking of his hands for anything but a sign of utmost excitation, and spellbound by the uncanny scene Karril completely forgot that he should take a breath every now and then to keep up appearances. "Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

The blissful smile faded, and the monk's eyes filled with tears. "I saw smoke and ruins", he whispered all but inaudibly. "Betrayal. My brothers bestially slaughtered by attackers who call themselves servants of our Lord but do the Archfiend's bidding instead. Armageddon is near, but those evil men mustn't succeed in killing our guests, Father, they mustn't, or the world will drown in madness forever!"

By now Karril's illusional hairs were standing on end, and Gabriel was white as a sheet. "May God help us!" the old monk exclaimed horror-stricken. "Surely you're not suggesting that the Knights of the Flame are going to attack our cloister? That has to be a bad waking dream or an illusion conjured up by the Evil One destined to strike fear in our fallible hearts!"

The friar winced, and a bewildered expression passed over his cherubic features. "Why are you yelling at me, Father?", he asked tearfully. "Have I done anything to displease you?" In the next instance his face went completely blank, and he recommenced rocking the baby and humming peacefully without taking the blindest bit of notice of them any longer.

Karril shuddered, and his broad shoulders drooped under the burden of his responsibility. There was no denying that a compelling case for Brother Mark's_ peculiarity _had just been made, but as a matter of fact the God of Pleasure could have done very well without. Evidently the poor mortal wasn't quite right in the head after witnessing the brutal murder of his mother, and the Iezu fervently hoped that he had just fallen prey to some vile hallucinations spawned by his addled mind or had indeed listened to the insinuations of whatever evil-intentioned creature intent on luring them from their shelter. Calesta was dead and the Iezu didn't mourn his demise, but the Unnamed doubtlessly still had a score to settle with both Gerald and his priest.

Notwithstanding for Karril's peace of mind the man's ramblings came much too close to the horrid scenes he had seen in Hawthorne's mind when the adept had turned up at his temple looking like ten miles of bad road and quite beside himself with dread despite his feigned nonchalance. If his friends' god truly existed and had in fact bothered to send both Tarrant's and Brother Mark's visions the friar's frightening outburst might very well contain more than a grain of truth, and in that case they were in for a hard time again. The God of Pleasure groaned inwardly. Whatever the future had in store for them he didn't have much of a choice for the time being. There was nowhere to run in those snow-covered mountains, and Gabriel had left no doubt that the adept's life was still hanging by a thread and that he would need warmth, rest and ample nourishment to recover. Under the given circumstances they just had to take a chance and stay until Gerald was back on his feet again. _If_ he would be back on his feet at all, that is.

"It's never been like that. Never", a shaky voice cut into his musings and brought him back to the here and now with a start. Andrys' uncle was trembling in every limb, and tears were running in rivulets down his ashen cheeks. "Although Mark insist on perceiving auras he's no visionary, Karril. He's never made a prophecy before, and to have those images of utter destruction thrown at me out of the blue is almost more than my old heart can bear. Everything inside me screams denial, urges me to dismiss his words as the delusions of an overwrought mind, but that _expression_ on his face... I've never encountered anything like it before, and just thinking of it makes my blood run cold with dread."

The old monk swallowed convulsively and balled his hands into fists. "I've promised you shelter, Karril, but apparently you aren't safe here any longer. You might be better off if you sought refuge in flight and abandoned us to our fate instead of returning to this doomed place. Unlike the founder of my bloodline I'm not a warrior, but I solemnly swear that anyone intent on harming your companion will have to do it over my dead body."

Usually due to his nature hedonism played a far larger part in Karril's existence than futile heroism, but walking out on Gerald in his hour of need was simply unthinkable. Somehow their fates had been inextricably linked ever since he had first set eyes on that beautiful visage so many centuries ago, and the God of Pleasure steeled himself to the inevitable and shook his head. "I don't know what Damien told you about his adventures, but let me get this straight once and for all, Mer Tarrant. In utter disregard of Iezu law and the limitations of my kind I accompanied the priest to a very nasty version of your hell about eighteen months ago in order to rescue the Hunter from the clutches of entities cruel and merciless beyond your reckoning. In this case _'hell'_ isn't just a metaphor of speech, and I'd appreciate it very much if you didn't make me rehash that experience. Suffice it to say that if I were capable of having nightmares the Lord of the Forest would have never felt the pangs of hunger again. But let's get down to the point. Gerald and I go way back, and I won't desert him anymore than I deserted the Hunter. Did I make myself clear?"

"Very clear, my friend", the old monk breathed, and his blue eyes rested on the Iezu with a mixture of naked dread and respect. "For today I've had quite enough revelations sprung upon me so far, and I've no intention whatsoever to ask what you and Damien suffered in a place where no living being is supposed to tread. Let's not talk about it again. But what are you going to do now? Are you still planning to travel to Jaggonath in your search for sustenance?"

Wishing for the umpteenth time that the priest hadn't been forced to stay behind Karril hesitated, but he was well aware that if it came to the worst in his weakened state he wouldn't be much of a help, anyway. As far as he was concerned it was wiser to feed first and prepare a nasty surprise for their pursuers later when he was back in his full power. To protect Hawthorne he wasn't in the least adverse to conjuring up another dragon or a whole horde of especially vicious demonlings, but maybe he would settle for creating the illusion of an impenetrable maze with the cloister in its centre like a spider in her web for the attackers' benefit instead. The God of Pleasure grinned wickedly. Let them move in a circle until they were forced to eat their unhorses and snow and biting cold cooled down their murderous temper! His decision made the Iezu bid Gabriel good-bye, kissed Gerald's forehead without giving a damn for the old monk's curious glance and vanished into thin air without leaving a trace of his existence behind.


	16. Chapter 16

**Choices**

Disclaimer: As we all know I'm not Ms Friedman, and no profit whatsoever is intended...

Warning: none

A/N 1: I know that referring to the channel Karril comes dangerously close to jeopardizing Gerald's existence, but it's a fact (in my stories) that the link survived Tarrant's death and transformation and still exists in the presence, and so merely mentioning it without delving into its origin should be okay.

A/N 2: Please don't flame me for focussing too much on my original characters. With Damien absent and Gerald still hovering between life and death there just have to be a few protagonists who aren't in the books to move the plot forward. Just writing about Karril watching over his friend would bore my readers to death, I'm afraid. The next chapter will deal with Damien's fate, anyway. Scout's honour!

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." (J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets)

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

When Karril returned to the study and put on human shape it was close to midnight. Of course he could have materialized directly in Gerald's sickroom, but long experience had taught him that humans usually didn't react favourably to his kind appearing right in their midst out of the blue. Much to his disappointment he had only found meagre fare in a city which was becoming much too pious and chaste for his taste. The brothels had apparently been shut down, and at every other corner he had come across bigoted preachers who had sermonized about the wrath of God and urged people to repent their sins. Much to the Iezu's dismay their ramblings hadn't fallen on deaf ears and crowds of deluded citizens had surrounded those foaming-mouthed lunatics, beating their breasts and wailing that the day of judgement had finally come. Witnessing those disturbing scenes of religious mania Karril had wondered what Gerald would have thought of this aberration of his church. The adept wasn't exactly renowned for his indulgence, and in all probability he would have deemed it necessary to chop off a few heads as a punishment for the perversion of his teachings.

To cap it all despite his best efforts it was still a mystery to the God of Pleasure what had become of Damien Vryce. Although the blanket of snow in front of Tory's humble birthplace had been trampled by numerous horses' hooves and stained by an unsettling amount of blood to Karril's eternal relief there hadn't been any corpses, but when he had paid a secretive visit to the accursed dungeons of the Inquisition he hadn't found a trace of the priest in the filthy cells filled to the brim with the poor souls awaiting torture and trial either. The air of sheer despair hanging over that miserable place had been almost palpable, and if he had been fully human Karril's heart would have clenched painfully at the sight of those deplorable mortals laying apathetically on the stone floor or wailing for their mothers, spouses or children. The Iezu still vividly remembered the night centuries ago when the Hunter had informed him about the witch hunts and religious persecutions on his mother planet Earth, and apparently humankind hadn't learned its lesson but was doomed to repeat the very same mistake all over again.

Pitying those suffering innocents who hadn't done anything wrong but worshipping pagan deities or being falsely accused by an envious competitor or malicious neigbour for a fleeting moment Karril had contemplated spending his hard-won resources on providing a possibility for their escape, but had decided against it. Although he had fed he was still far from being himself again, and with regard to the rather grim future prospects husbanding one's strength had seemed advisable in the extreme. Maybe his favourite sibling Saris would agree to assisting him in freeing the hapless prisoners in the coming days, but whether he liked it or not for the time being his hands had been tied.

A muffled shout and the faint sound of a baby crying brought the God of Pleasure back to the here and now with a start. What the hell was going on inside the secret room? Close to panicking he instantly opted for throwing all caution to the wind and worrying about human sensibilities later, but before he could revert to his natural form of appearance again the rack swung back and revealed a dishevelled Father Gabriel. The distraught expression on his wrinkled face didn't bode well, and the Iezu braced himself for doubtlessly unpleasant news. "Thank God you're back, Karril", the old monk sighed with relief. "Your companion's condition has changed for the worse since sunset, and he's burning with fever now. We're wrapping cold compresses around his shins and administering our most potent herb infusions, but he can't keep them down. Gerald's been delirious for several hours now, incessantly calling for his husband, and his already battered body won't be able to tolerate that amount of pressure much longer. I'm so sorry, my friend, but unless a miracle happens I don't think he'll survive the night."

Karril blinked, incapable of fully comprehending what he had just been told. As long as they weren't foolish enough to draw the wrath of the Hunter or their progenitor sickness and death were unknown to his kind, and all the centuries of his existence hadn't prepared him for those words. Certainly the adept hadn't survived a trip to his hell, a sadistic, power-hungry Iezu brother, a full-blown crusade and the birth of his son just to die of a miserable fever? With rising dread the Iezu rushed into the small chamber and stopped dead in his tracks, not quite believing his eyes.

The rather peaceful afternoon scenario which had evidently gotten his hopes up somewhat prematurely had turned into a veritable nightmare. Flushed with fever and his teeth clattering a wild staccato Gerald tossed and turned in the bed yelling Damien's name while a crying Brother Mark was desperately trying to hold him down. A wet, hungry and very annoyed Tory added to the general mayhem, leaving no doubt that his tiny lungs were just working fine in spite of his premature debut, and the God of Pleasure couldn't help but wondering if human ears were truly indispensable in the current situation or if he wouldn't be better off without.

"He mustn't die, Father, he mustn't", the young monk sobbed hysterically. "The Lord will be angry with us if we don't save him."

The prior rested a shaky hand on Brother Mark's shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "We're doing what we can to help him, but it's in God's hands now. Please calm down. It's no use to lose our heads." Then he turned round and fixed his piercing gaze on the Iezu. "Isn't there anything at all you can do for him, my friend? I'm the infirmarius of our little community, but although I was just about fetching another potion on your arrival I have to admit that I've reached the limits of my capacity."

Karril shrugged uneasily. "I could create illusions, send him some pleasant dreams and blind him to his discomfort, but I'm no healer. Whatever I do to him won't reduce the fever or cleanse his bloodstream of an infection. That's Vryce's territory, and I curse the hour the priest set his stubborn mind on staying behind. We're truly in dire need of his skills now."

"What did you find out about our friend Damien? Is he...?"

"I don't have the faintest idea, Gabriel. It's as if the priest had vanished from the face of Erna without a trace, and that gives me pause. With regard to the amount of blood shed close to the cave he must indeed have fought like a cornered animal, but there were no corpses, no graves, nothing at all that gave some indication of his fate. I followed their trails for a while, and as far as I could tell they were leading straight to your cloister. I'm completely mystified, and if the adventures in the company of Damien Vryce and the Hunter have taught me one thing it's that unsolved riddles are usually the first ominous omens of even more dire events to come. Something's going on", the God of Pleasure continued tensely, "and I don't like the feel of it, don't like it at all. Don't even bother to ask me how it came to pass, but Gerald's and Damien's souls are irrevocably linked with each other in a bond so strong that it might even survive death, and I don't understand why the priest doesn't answer his husband's calls. Perhaps..."

Karril winced when Tory's screams were pitching up to unprecedented heights, and his with a meaningful glance in the Iezu's direction his counterpart straightened and approached the young monk who still seemed to be quite beside himself with dread. "Do me a favour and take the little one to the kitchen, Brother. You can change his napkins, feed him and get me another helping of our fever reducing elixir along the way. And don't you forget to eat something yourself! It won't help our patient if you collapse and we have to tend to you as well."

Brother Mark rose to his feet obediently and made for the exit, but at the last moment he hesitated and looked them fair in the face. "Love is stronger than death", the friar whispered and smiled through his tears. "_He_ knows that now, and so does his husband. You all think me insane because I can perceive thing others don't, but mark my words! There's so much darkness in his soul, a pitch black abyss of cruelty, fury and resentment which hasn't been touched by a single ray of light for years and years, but it's the blood-red of true love that binds him to this world. Use the tools you must, Karril! It's in your power to call your friend back to the realms of the living, but you'd better not wait too long. His life's hanging by a thread. " In the next instance he was gone, leaving behind his thunderstruck superior and a no less flabbergasted Iezu.

"Slowly but surely I'm getting over my head with this", the old monk muttered wearily. "Most of the time you get naught out of him but a smile and his beloved psalms, and at a moment's notice he's talking like the most eloquent orator. I can't help wondering where this may lead, but for now there are more urgent matters to consider. In fact I had good reasons for sending Mark on an errand. " Gabriel cut himself off and looked over his shoulder as if he was suspecting an invisible eavesdropper. "You might have never heard about it, but there have been rumours lately, Karril, very disturbing rumours concerning a secret stronghold of the Inquisition hidden deeply in the Dividers. Nobody dares talking about it other than in hushed whispers, but it is said that none of their deplorable victims has ever returned from their dungeons in the bowels of the mountains. If they didn't kill Damien but abducted him for whatever sinister purpose instead... maybe there are truly fates worse than mere death. Just thinking of what might befall him in that accursed place makes my blood run cold with dread!"

If the God of Pleasure's body _had_ contained a few drops of genuine blood at all it would have turned to ice water in his veins by now, and he very nearly gave in to the utterly human habit of tearing his hair out in despair. Wasn't it enough that he was burdened with a newborn and a seriously ill friend who might mean more than just a friend to him, not to mention the obligation to free his imprisoned followers? Although Damien had snatched Hawthorne out from under his nose he notwithstanding regarded him as a pal and was well aware that he owed the warrior knight more than he could ever pay back, but fighting a multi-front war exceeded the capacities even of one of his kind by a long shot.

Be it as it may Karril had no intention of leaving Gerald's side for the time being, and the search for the priest simply had to wait until the current crisis had been mastered. Feeling more than slightly guilty for abandoning Vryce to his fate the God of Pleasure was still trying to convince himself that he had no real choice when a faint but clearly agitated voice interrupted his musings. "What are you up to now, you crazy mystery-monger? You have no business here in our prior's study, creeping around with that unholy fruit of sin in your arms!"

Grabbing his arm Gabriel put a finger on his lips, but try as he might the Iezu couldn't understand Brother Mark's tear-choked reply. If he wasn't completely mistaken the speaker had been the very monk who had greeted them so indignantly at the chapel door, and from the sound of it the two young men were anything but on friendly terms with each other.

"None of your stupid excuses, dimwit!" Mark's opponent spat viciously. "Those decent folks trying to root out evil made just one mistake the day they killed that witch you call your mother, namely failing to burn the spawn of her fornication with the Evil One along with her. You're a disgrace to this place of God, and I can't fathom why Father Gabriel didn't turn you out of doors long ago. Maybe he's in league with the Devil himself, and our religious community would profit from the appointment of a more godly Superior."

Stunned Karril stared at the prior, not daring to move a limb. Apparently that bigot was in perfect agreement with the doctrines of the Inquisition and wouldn't weep into his pillow at night if each and every dissident and 'heretic' was burned at the stake. Shuddering involuntarily the Iezu sent a silent prayer at the address of his Mother that the mind-addled young friar would keep his nerve instead of betraying their whereabouts to a mortal who very likely wasn't inclined to turn a blind eye on the existence of the closet and its hapless inhabitants.

To make matters worse the adept chose exactly that very inopportune moment for opening his chapped lips for another vain cry for his absent husband, and without thinking twice the God of Pleasure rushed to his side and clamped his fingers over his unfortunate friend's mouth. "Shush, Gerald", Karril whispered imploringly. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, my friend, but please, _please_ keep your mouth shut for once."

Pricking up his ears like an uncat on the prowl the Iezu abandoned all attempts at mimicking human respiration and froze to utter motionlessness, dead set on creating an especially blood-curdling illusion if that despicable fanatic somehow managed to prise the secret out of his fellow-monk and tried to force his way into their hiding-spot. Thankfully Brother Mark seemed to have one of his more lucid moments though, and after a moment of breathless silence to the God of Pleasure's utmost relief the door of Gabriel's study slammed and the two young friars were gone.

"That was much too close for my peace of mind", Andrys' long lost uncle breathed, his pale forehead beaded with sweat. "I've known for a long time that Brother Michail disagrees with what he calls my _leniency_ and my refusal to establish the strict regimen the Church would like us to adopt. All of us devoted their lives to God when they joined our confraternity, but I don't see the point in excessive fasting or flagellation. The Prophet sternly disapproved of those practices, and in my humble opinion we would all be better off if his teachings were adhered to more closely."

The old monk heaved a sigh from the bottom of his soul and slumped down on the chair, his despair and exhaustion clearly evident in his every motion. "I can't grasp what's becoming of the faith which has constituted the backbone of my very existence for so many years, Karril. Up to know in the seclusion of our cloister I lulled myself into a false sense of security despite the clear evidence that the Church was straying far from the track the Prophet paved for us a millennium ago. I played down the danger, pretended that just a few of the believers were heeding whatever sinister insinuations the Devil had chosen to bring into play, but there's no denying that the madness is spreading like a malignant cancerous ulcer. I fear that the world we live in will never be the same again. What Michail said to his brother in faith is simply unforgivable", Gabriel went on miserably. "He's bright, ambitious and obviously utterly ruthless. I don't even dare to imagine what he's going to do if he finds out who you are, and there are others who might very well side with him in case of an open confrontation. I fobbed my brothers off with a flimsy lie, told them that you were a merchant whose wife went into labour while you were on your way across the Dividers, but that fairytale won't bear up under a closer examination. I'm the prior of our religious community, but you have to understand that my power isn't absolute."

_Crap_! Instead of taking revenge on his ancestor for the slaughtering of his relatives while the God of Pleasure had been away Gabriel had been true to his word and had tried to help the adept as best as he could, and Karril had no reason whatsoever to doubt his sincerity and benevolence any longer, but maybe Mark's ramblings about betrayal weren't so far fetched after all. With all his heart the Iezu wished that Vryce were at his side and would relieve him of the burden of making the right decision, but lamenting about his absence unfortunately wouldn't get them anywhere. With a valiant effort the Iezu willed himself to keep his head and pondered his options.

"The Hunter told me that King Gannon outlawed what you call 'selfish sorcery' back in the Revivalist period", he commenced diplomatically when he had reached a decision concerning the required course of action, "but with your consent I could create a simple illusion for your monks' benefit. You have my word that I won't plant any carnal longings or pagan notions in their minds, but making them believe that three harmless travellers leave your cloister at the break of dawn would buy us valuable time for Gerald's recovery."

"You're expecting my compliance with bewitching the souls in my charge?" the old monk asked disbelievingly. "I vowed to to everything in my power to keep you alive, but that's a tall order, Karril! Are you even remotely aware that I will have to account for my deeds at God's throne on Judgement Day? What kind of verdict do you think the Lord will hand down on a man of the Church who abused his authority in such an appalling fashion?"

"Desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures, as you humans are wont to point out. Didn't your prophet himself write that you should use the tools you must? Your _peculiar_ little monk reminded us of that well-known quotation a few minutes ago, and I think we should take his advice and worry about eternity later."

The prior buried his face in his hands, shaken to the core. "Forgive me for my harsh words, my friend, but I just don't know what to believe anymore. For decades the path of my life in the service of the Church has been predestined, the lines between good and evil clearly defined, but now we're living in times of trouble which could even reduce the wisest man to despair. Maybe I've just lived too long and should have died along with the rest of my deplorable family."

The old man's voice cracked, and the God of Pleasure couldn't help but pitying the devastated monk while he remembered Vryce's pangs of conscience and the undermining of his faith by the Hunter's corrupting presence. Evidently Gerald's uncanny capacity for jolting the mortals he came in contact with from their tunnel-vision hadn't been lessened by the pitiable condition he was in, but when Hawthorne moaned Damien's name and blindly groped for a calloused hand which might very well have been immobilized in death hours ago Karril decided that there were more urgent matters to deal with.

Brother Mark had made himself perfectly clear that Gerald was running out of time and that nothing but his damned affection for Vryce had kept him alive so far, and the Iezu didn't feel in the least inclined to stand idly by while the one human being he had come to cherish far beyond the limitations of his aspect was losing his lonely fight against death. If the adept needed his husband's presence to survive he would bloody well get it, and to hell with church sensibilities and the consequences for his own besotted self! With a channel as strong as the two lovebirds' the God of Pleasure was well aware that he wouldn't have stood a snowballs chance in hell if Gerald hadn't been sick as a nudog; the former Hunter would have seen through the deception in a heartbeat, but in his current delirious state there was a however slim possibility that Karril would get away with his trickery. He simply had to outdo himself once again and give Hawthorne and his last living descendant a Iezu's money's worth.

The God of Pleasure suppressed a sigh and focussed on the task ahead. His chubby shape wavered and momentarily disintegrated into a silvery mist as alien molecules were rearranged until they were forming the perfect semblance of Damien Kilcannon Vryce. From far, far away, his auditory canals not fully rebuilt yet, he heard Gabriel's gasp of surprise, but everything paled before his ardent need for succouring his friend. The outer accoutrements including the sword with the flame patterned hilt completed to his satisfaction Karril riveted on the small but by no means insignificant details. After changing the eye colour from dark to hazel brown he concentrated on his voice, brightening it up by a few nuances and saturating it with Vryce's deep caring and love for Gerald he remembered so well from the long hours in the wretched cave when the warrior knight had tried to console his birthing husband. Reasonably sure that he hadn't missed something of vital importance the Iezu knelt down at Hawthorne's side at long last and took his icy, trembling hands in his so much larger ones. "Gerald?" he whispered gently. "Gerald, I'm right here. Come back to me, my love!"

At first there wasn't much of a reaction except a faint fluttering of lashes as black as true night and another one of those heartrending groans which were never failing to send a cold shiver down Karril's illusory spine, but he stubbornly refused to lose heart and just continued telling the adept how much he loved him and that their newborn son needed both of his parents to protect him from harm. True to his nature the Iezu didn't have any actual tears to shed, but his human half getting the upper hand from day to day he was very well capable of feeling, and in the guise of the priest he finally allowed himself to voice all those blossoming emotions. The tender words he'd never had reason to utter before in all the long years of his existence came surprisingly easy to him, and losing himself in his beseeching pleading the God of Pleasure wasn't even aware that Gabriel quietly got to his feet and left the closet, granting them some privacy.

Time passed and the coldest hour of the night heralding the dawn had already begun, and still Karril wasn't growing tired of talking to his unconscious friend. For a while the old monk had joined them again, administering another helping of his elixir and changing the cold compresses, and the Iezu had derived no small comfort from his presence, but roundabout an hour ago Gabriel had left for a well-deserved nap. Gerald was still out cold, but as far as the God of Pleasure could tell his haggard body wasn't that scorching hot anymore and he had calmed down considerably. Notwithstanding Karril wasn't in the least prepared for an abrupt change of circumstances, and he very nearly jumped out of his skin when his efforts were suddenly rewarded with slender fingers returning his grip with astounding strength. Looking up with a start Karril couldn't quite believe his luck when his disbelieving stare was met by a pair of dark eyes gazing at him with a faint trace of amusement.

"Don't have to get all sappy, Vryce", the adept mumbled, his low words hoarse and slurred. "How many times... do I have to tell you... that you won't get rid of me? As long as you... don't let me die of thirst, that is."

In a blink Karril jumped to his feet and made for the clay jug on the table, at the loss of words. Gerald's eyes were still glazed over with fever and his voice barely audible, but for a man who had been about knocking at death's door he was already displaying a reassuring amount of his haughty, aloof self again. After a few careful sips Hawthorne leaned back and closed his eyes, and it didn't take long until he drifted back into the arms of oblivion, still clutching the Iezu's hands in a death grip and a faint smile playing around his pale lips.

The God of Pleasure heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. Very likely the former Hunter would give him hell if he ever found out that he had impersonated his beloved priest for his benefit, but as far as Karril was concerned the end justified the means, and after all he had just done what the Prophet himself had recommended so many centuries ago. Evidently he had chosen the correct tool to call Hawthorne back from the ghastly realms between life and death, and although the future still looked rather grim he allowed himself a whiff of careful optimism. When his friend was on the mend he could have a look for the priest without worrying that he would return from his search just to be faced with a stiff corpse, and then they could all leave those inhospitable mountains and start all over again in a place which wasn't ravaged by religious warfare. Smiling Karril closed his eyes as well and relaxed for the first time since he had found his friend doubling up in pain over the huge alteroak table which had saved his life in the end.


End file.
